


DR:ASLH - Loose Ends

by crowkerus



Series: Danganronpa: A Stormy Last Hurrah [3]
Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Danganronpa: A Stormy Last Hurrah, Original Work
Genre: Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-23 05:36:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 22,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23339863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crowkerus/pseuds/crowkerus
Summary: Literary sketches and nonsense set in and around the universe of Danganronpa: A Stormy Last Hurrah.(In other words: I have far too much time on my hands, and far too many stories to be told. I'd like to share them with you.)Updates the first Thursday of every month!
Series: Danganronpa: A Stormy Last Hurrah [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1434328
Comments: 17
Kudos: 27





	1. READ ME

The following is a collection of various supplementary writings that I’ve done for ASLH. Unless stated otherwise, each chapter of this work is a standalone piece.

On that note, please, please, PLEASE take note of the warnings at the beginning of each chapter. These are most certainly NOT posted in any kind of chronological order relative to ASLH itself, it’s more of “when I wrote them” and “when I feel it’s appropriate to post them”. This is your only warning.

These will contain warnings, labels, and summaries.

  * Warnings are obvious; these are either spoiler warnings, content warnings, or both. There is also an “ARC SPOILER” warning for character-centric pieces, this indicates that the piece contains spoilers for that character and you’re best off not touching that chapter until you know everything (currently revealed in [canon](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17807780/chapters/42014999)) about them.
  * Labels denote the type of writing the chapter actually is. These are roughly divided into (more to come):
    * CHARACTER STUDIES: Highly experimental and avant- garde poetic prose pieces that center around a specific character. I started doing these early in ASLH’s development to better understand the characters, and thus they do not necessarily match with the specifics of their canon fates or characterizations.
    * CANON/CANON CSM: This is bonus canon content, to either main ASLH or Clear Skies Mode.
    * AU: This is an AU.
    * EXPERIMENTAL: This story doesn’t slot neatly into ASLH’s canon, but could be considered part of its timeline. Mostly for pregame stuff.
  * Summaries are also self-explanatory.



Hope you enjoy!


	2. words whitened to grey, colored like cappuccino

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **duet;** noun  
> 
> 
>   1. _Music:_  
> 
>     1. a composition for two voices or two instruments
>     2. a group of two singers or two instrumentalists
> 2) a pair. 

> 
> (Or, friendship doesn't always fix everything, but maybe it's worth a shot.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNING:** Arc Spoilers (Aster Everett; Sentarou Sekisada)  
>  **LABEL:** AU  
>  **SUMMARY:** I think Aster and Sen should be friends, actually. Title taken from "Rain With Cappuccino" by Yorushika.

They play piano.

This wasn’t a problem- this shouldn’t be a problem. It’s a hobby that many, many people enjoy. In fact, it’s one of the most commonly played instruments. Piano is universal. It’s not even technically his instrument. Technically speaking, it would be the school’s piano, and the only one in the music room. There’s a second keyboard in the closet, but he’s the only one who ever goes in here, so he’s never had a reason to set it up.

Except he’s not the only one who ever goes in here, because now so are they.

This shouldn’t be a problem, but _he_ plays piano. This is _his_ escape from the life he leads and all the heartache he’s seen. Of course, it could be their escape, too, but that’s not the point, the point is that they can’t just- they can’t just encroach on his life like this. First they come into his life with this stupid Danganronpa shit, and now they’re sitting here at the keys, picking out a lilting waltz with not quite ease, but a confidence he’s never seen of them.

It’s so hard to connect the person in front of him with the person that sits on a stage, dodging questions about their life and the death they just barely managed to avoid. Or to connect them with the person who stays silent in class, forever distracted, forever jumping at slammed doors and closing off when addressed. They’re much more real, here, with nothing to focus on but the music before them.

And they’re good. They’re really, really good, even though they’ve only been playing for two years, maybe less than that. Sentarou doesn’t really know much about musical talent or natural giftedness or anything like that, but Everett plays with passion, and that’s something that can’t be taught. Even Sentarou isn’t sure if he can do that, some days, when piano becomes a chore rather than an escape. It’s somewhat terrifying.

It takes them until the last few measures of the piece, from what he can tell, to notice his presence, the only indication a singular skipped chord that makes the song so much hollower than it should be. When they let it ring, they take a moment before they turn to him. He hopes they don’t recognize him, but by the look in their eyes it's far too late.

“Hello,” they say, uncertainly. “Sekisada-san, right?”

He wants to express his surprise at their talent. Maybe congratulate their progress, or hint at his envy of their raw passion. Start a real conversation, for once, with maybe the one person who could even possibly understand everything that his life has become.

But when he opens his mouth, what comes out is, “You’re sitting in my seat.”

They blink. “I’m sorry?”

Instead of answering, he lets the door close quietly behind him.

* * *

“We should play a duet.”

Everett’s eyes have been heavy on his shoulders for some time as he works his way through the piece. Bach’s Invention No. 9 in F minor. He can’t quite get the scales right at the end, and he’s so caught up in those stupid notes that he nearly misses the request. In fact, he almost wishes he did, and it’s easy to pretend he did until they repeat it.

“Sekisada-san? I think we could play a duet, or something.”

“I heard you the first time,” he says. “And I don’t really want to.”

“Why not?”

The question gives him pause. Already, excuses bubble up, seeping through the vague sense that he should accept the offer. Because he doesn’t, as Bates would probably say, play with amateurs. Because his brother would see it as a reason to drag him further into his world of glamorous carnage. Because he has a hard enough time just getting out of bed every morning and telling himself that he should live another day without the added pressure of someone telling him to indulge _his_ life with _them._

He finally settles for something banal but believable. “Because I don’t have time,” he tells them, and it sounds flimsy even to him. They could be squinting at him, but he ignores it and runs the scale again. Damn it. Missed another sharp. He repositions his hands to try again.

“All you do is play piano,” Everett interrupts, breaking his concentration. “You have plenty of time to practice something for a duet. And we do have two pianos.”

“One of them’s a shitty keyboard,” Sentarou retorts. “It barely counts as a piano. It doesn’t even have 88 keys.”

“We don’t have to perform here, I’m sure we could practice somewhere else. Like-”

They cut themselves off, and Sentarou understands before really registering it. There’s two grand pianos in the entry room of Team Danganronpa’s interview hall, perpetually in perfect tune but forever left untouched. If the two of them were to perform anywhere they knew with two pianos, it would have to be there.

Neither of them speak again, for a moment, until Everett clears their throat. “Or we don’t have to perform at all,” they continue, as if nothing had happened. “There’s no reason to say no.”

“Look, do I really need to have a reason? I just don’t really want to talk to y- to talk to anyone.” Sentarou sighs, runs a hand across his face, scrubs at the bags under his eyes. He doesn’t apologize for the correction, even as Everett presses their lips together. “We’re not even friends, Everett-shi,” he finishes.

They hum, toneless, agreeable despite everything. “But we could be.”

He doesn’t respond to that, but the next time he tries to play the scale, it’s in perfect tune. Though he doesn’t make the conscious decision to look at Everett, they nod in what he guesses to be satisfaction, and maybe this should release the weight on his chest but only makes it heavier.

* * *

“Here.”

Everett stares at the papers that Sentarou thrusts into their chest, then slowly lifts their hands to take them. He’s already opening his own folder and placing it on the piano as they page through the score, eyebrows raising slowly.

“Rondo For 97 Keys?” they ask, holding up the papers and squinting at the notes. “This looks vaguely illegal. Who scored this?”

“An EDM producer, so don’t expect it to make sense,” he tells them, staring at his own sheet. “They actually scored it themselves, though, so it’s possible to play.”

It’s a lot of strange rhythms and tempo changes, but it’s doable. Probably. Everett peers over his shoulder, expressionless, eyes flicking between their music and his. The pause stretches too long to be comfortable, and he shifts in his seat.

“Is something wrong?”

“Your part has all the solos,” they point out. “Mine’s mostly harmonies.”

“I’ve been playing piano since I was ten,” he snaps at them. “Of course I’m not going to let _you_ play the solos.”

And… and that’s too harsh, isn’t it. Too harsh to say to someone who’s been playing two short years; too little to say to someone who assumes they’re on his level; too much for him to say, when he’s worth nothing at all.

But Everett’s expression doesn’t change. Their eyes don’t leave his back as the apology withers in his throat with every other question of who they are and how he could help them, if only he were able to. They still look at him as he starts the piece, working out the snags of the middle section as he tries and fails to lose himself in his own playing.

After a moment, they go to get the keyboard from the closet.

* * *

Everett doesn’t sightread the piece in one sitting, only working through the first part of it once before going back to fix what they missed. It runs contrary to everything he’s ever learned about music, from teachers apathetic and forceful alike, and it infuriates him. By the third day, though, even he can admit it’s much less infuriating than listening to them play it once through, messing up the key signature with their clumsy fingers.

When they finally run the piece in its half-mangled form, they smile to themselves, the expression so foreign on a face he’s used to seeing sagging at the corners. They seem, for once, genuinely at peace - although there’s much work to be done, and he’s sure they know that, they’ve taken the first steps toward the daunting task before them.

He shouldn’t be jealous. He is, in fact, extremely jealous. It’s been a long time since just playing had brought him so much joy. Still, after rummaging a bit, he sets a metronome on a spare stand and turns it to the loudest setting. Its loud clicking echoes in the dead air, and they look to him in curiosity as he drums his fingers impatiently.

“We should run this together,” he says.

It’s awful, really, as each of them wait for cues that the other doesn’t give. Everett’s keyboard keeps cutting out whenever they play their rolling harmonies, which is especially irritating the few times the melody comes to them. Even Sentarou can admit that his playing isn’t up to par, either - although he has access to a piano at home and has been practicing this song far more than these moments at school, it’s far from perfect.

At the end of the longest five minutes of his life, someone’s last beat is just a second too late. They both wince as the off-key chord reverberates around the room.

“Well,” Everett says into the silence. “That was a disaster.”

“Agreed.”

He makes sure not to hide his disappointment as he flips back to the first tempo change and lets his fingers glide across the high notes, scowling just a little as he sketches out the notes correctly this time.

Still. Maybe he understands that whole playing with passion thing a little better, now that he’s actually tried it. Maybe he should do that more often.

* * *

At some point, they’ve both started coming in to practice for an hour before school every day. At some other point, they’ve started switching off the keyboard and piano at their sessions. Today, Sentarou has the keyboard, which doesn’t seem to want to come off the chime setting one of the underclassmen set it to. Thankfully, Everett doesn’t laugh, and only tilts their head as they take in the tinkling melodies.

“This sounds like something that Hayato would listen to,” they note. “He likes music boxes, you know.”

“Mm.” Sentarou plays another few chimes, then transitions into a different melody that suits the chime a little better. Some kind of movie theme, if he’s remembering correctly. “Like that?”

They listen for a moment, then shrug. “Yeah, but also not really. He likes simpler things, with less frills. You’ve met him, right?”

“About as much as I’ve met most of the other survivors. You’re the only one I really talk to. Considering we go to the same school.” Carefully, he stretches out his hands. “I’m surprised Kikuchi-shi likes music boxes, though. He seemed very harsh to me.”

“Harsh? Are you kidding? He’s an enormous teddy bear, he just hates being on those interviews.” Everett smirks. “Didn’t you even watch our season?”

“No,” he tells them honestly.

They let it drop.

Although the keyboard stops being stuck within the next week, they still change it back to the chime setting every now and then. Just to make sure it works.

* * *

“Everett-san-”

“Huh?”

“Sorry, Everett-shi.”

“You know, you can refer to people with informal honorifics. You don’t have to be so distant all the time.” They glance up from the keyboard. “Did you need something?”

He closes the piano cover. “Nothing. Forget it.”

* * *

“You seem different, y’know. Since we’ve been practicing so much.”

The keyboard is much too flimsy to properly play on, so the conversation’s a welcome distraction. Even if he doesn’t quite know where this is going.

Of course, he already expects the worst. He’s so much harder to get along with once people really know him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks. To his dismay, Everett takes their time answering, brushing their hair aside as they scrutinize his face. It’s starting to grow out more, a light brunette scrubbing out the bright pink that used to make up the bulk of their head. Funny how people can change so much in such a short amount of time.

“I mean you seem happier,” they say. “Even outside of class. You’ve been talking to more people, making jokes. Smiling.”

“Oh.” He blinks, hoping his surprise isn’t too obvious. “That might be because of Lyosha, really. We’ve been- he’s been a huge help, outside of class and everything.”

_It has nothing to do with you,_ is the implication he realizes too late.

There’s no time to apologize before Everett glances aside, shrugging the tension off with their shoulders. “Still, it’s not a bad change. You look better when you smile.”

He pauses, looks at them and at the smirk crawling up their face. All he can think is that this is a far cry from the despondent and disinterested personality they’d presented up until a few months ago. All he can think to respond with, however, is “You too.”

* * *

There are some days when the notes come more easily than others. Some days when, if he wants to, the melodies just come out; the notes unspooling before him easily. It’s on these days that he feels most comfortable, most confident calling himself a musician. In fact, on these days, he might even want to fancy himself a composer.

Today, to put things extremely lightly, is not one of these days.

He arrives at the school far too early, plays far too precariously. Each note overshoots passion and lands squarely in fury, grief, resentment. Rachmaninoff’s Prelude in C# Minor comes out in short angry bursts, the contrast between sorrow and power utterly ruined by the rage that threatens to choke him. Music is supposed to be about emotion, but the one time he can actually muster up enough energy to feel, what comes out doesn’t resemble music at all. How pathetic.

At some point, Everett comes in. At some point, they stay, and when he finally pauses he has every intent of screaming and sobbing, what with everything that’s built up with his brother and his family and every single dispute about _fame_ and _money_ and _glory_ -

And they say nothing, only offer him a paper. He doesn’t take it at first, but they press it into his hands the same way he did to them with their music all those weeks ago, and he takes it. It only registers once they leave and his vision clears that this is a teacher’s pass - forged, obviously - that excuses him from today’s classes, allowing him to stay in this music room all day.

If he had the words, and if they’d stayed just a little longer, he’d thank them. Instead, he closes his eyes and keeps playing.

By the end of the day, he can play music again.

* * *

“Everett-san.”

They look up, then down to his hands, where he’s holding out a box of chocolates. To his utter dismay, they have the audacity to snort and roll their eyes.

“It’s not White Day. And you know I’m taken.”

Sentarou stifles the retort he’s half-prepared. “It’s not about romance, dumbass. This is- it’s just thanks. For last time.”

They blink. Looking more than a little confused, they open their mouth, close it, and then mumble something he doesn’t catch. Before they get the chance to repeat whatever sappy thing they were probably going to say, he waves the box in their face.

“Unless you don’t want it, then I’ll be happy to eat it for and right in front of you. It’s fucking Yoyogi chocolates,” he adds. “I have never tried these before, and I heard they’re really good, so I will have no remorse about eating them.”

“Alright, alright,” they say, reaching up to grab the box. “If only to spite you.”

“Good. Remember to wash your hands before you even think about touching that piano.”

By the time they leave for class, they give him half of the chocolate anyway. Just another debt he’s unable to pay off.

(Although by this point he’s not sure if there exists a debt, except perhaps in his own mind.)

* * *

Their eyes, today, are heavy in a different way. Tired, maybe, from the latest preseason survivor show. They only play a few notes before sighing and moving the keyboard aside. He’s sure they’ll leave - they usually do, when they’ve been having a rough morning, with a muted farewell - but instead they stand there, their arms hanging limp at their sides.

“You never say anything at interviews,” they say. “You’ve been doing this for how long, now? At least two years, right?”

A discordant note frees itself from his hands, the chord two keys too flat. He says nothing.

“That’s at least four rounds of these murder games. I- I know what I went through was terrible, but… doesn’t seeing all of that take a toll on you?”

Stupid. He should have gotten that sharp. Adjust, reposition, try again.

“You could just walk away from all of this, you know. I’m stuck with Danganronpa forever, but _you_ have the choice to keep coming back.”

“You’re acting like I haven’t tried to walk away,” he bites out, still playing. His fingers are starting to cramp. What do they want from him?

“Well, you clearly haven’t,” they say, voice rising to be heard above his playing. “Look, I literally- I pretty much just put it together, alright? I realized you’re the same Sentarou Sekisada-san that had taken me to- to my first interview, and I don’t understand why you’re _here._ You’ve never acted like you’ve wanted this, so why do you try?”

Keep playing. Keep your head down. Don’t speak, don’t let anything bother you.

“So why do you stay? What made you even want to do this in the first place? Do you seriously want to keep seeing this shit over and over?”

He slams on the piano - so hard it nearly buckles beneath him - and he stops.

“I have no CHOICE, OKAY?!”

Everett flinches back, eyes wide and distant. They stumble, and before Sentarou can reach out to steady them, they take another two steps back and stand their ground.

It’s a long time before either of them speak.

“I was thirteen.”

No response.

“I was thirteen when I started filling seats for Team Danganronpa.”

“Five years ago,” they mumble, and the gears turn behind their eyes. Younger than even they were when they burned their past self under stage lights. Sentarou nods softly and closes his eyes.

“My brother gave me that position when I was a kid, and I haven’t been able to get out since. See, he’s- he’s kind of a terrible person, alright? But he’s basically got control over- a lot of my life, by this point. Not all of it, but a lot of it. And I don’t want to be like him.”

He inhales against the knot in his chest. Still, Everett says nothing.

“I wouldn’t- I’m not the kind of person to want to be there. I swear I don’t want to be, but I don’t have a choice.”

“You always have a choice.”

The words surprise him after all this nonresponse. Everett stares at him, stares straight at him, and he didn’t ever understand what Kumoshita says about Murdock’s glare piercing through people until this moment; yet Everett’s expression reads more of sheer exhaustion than any kind of calculated fury.

“You have a choice to reach out,” they say simply. “It means a lot to at least talk to us. To me. Okay? If you feel bad about all of this, you can do something to stop it. You always can, Sekisada-san.”

Their gaze burns into him; he can place the expression now. Disappointment.

He turns back to the piano. His answer, when he can find it, is final.

“No, I can’t.”

They only watch as he starts practicing again. There’s still plenty of time for them to practice, too, but they don’t make another move until the bell finally rings.

* * *

It’s no one’s fault when they come back the next day and the keyboard is broken. It has nothing to do with Sentarou’s abuse yesterday; that was to the actual piano, which seems to be working fine. And, to be fair, it had a good run. It’s been about four months since they’ve started practicing, which is a solid four months more than he expected it to last.

Still, when it finally exhales its last crackle of static, Everett stands up from the piano. Sentarou looks at them, surprised.

“You don’t have to leave,” he says. “It’s my day to play keyboard, anyway, it’s not your problem-”

Everything else he wants to say has no choice but to fade away as they stare at the keys before them. Slowly, gingerly, they step away from the piano.

“Goodbye, Sekisada-san,” they say, neutrally, evenly, the first thing they’ve said all day.

They don’t take their music with them as the door slams behind them.

* * *

Everett doesn’t show up the next day.

* * *

Or the next.

* * *

Today, he fumbles through only three minutes of a Yorushika arrangement before closing the piano.

It’s much too quiet.

* * *

“I want to apologize.”

Chisaki squints at him and his empty hands through the crack in the door. “They don’t wanna see you,” she all but spits, and he knows this, but he has to try anyway.

“Look,” he presses. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t mean it, okay? I’m not stupid. I know when I’m not wanted.”

“Well, you’re not wanted now,” Chisaki tells him. “Get lost.”

That’s that, he guesses. “Fine,” he manages, and turns to leave, until an indistinct voice calls from inside the room that freezes him where he stands.

He can’t make out the words, but in Chisaki’s hesitation, she pauses and holds the door open for just a minute longer. After Everett stops talking, Chisaki huffs a sigh and turns back to him. “They want to talk to you. I’m giving you five minutes, and I am going to be in the room, and if you are still in that room after five minutes I will personally defenestrate you.”

Another pause. Chisaki’s eyes narrow, then roll as she heaves a bigger and even more dramatic sigh.

“Okay, they said I’m not allowed to do that. But make it fast, okay? And if you hurt Rett-chan again,” she adds, jabbing a finger in his face, “no one will ever find your body.” She opens the door in its entirety and steps out of the room, still glaring holes into his skull.

“Duly noted,” he tells Chisaki on her way out. She only scoffs, and finally, he’s able to step into the room.

He gets no further than the doorway before catching sight of Everett at their desk. They shove aside a physics textbook and face him, their glare less vicious but far heavier than Chisaki’s.

“Sekisada-san,” they say evenly.

He swallows. “Everett-san.”

There’s so much that could be said, so much that should be said, and yet standing here everything he thought to say evaporated in an instant. But apologies always need to start somewhere, and he may as well try for once in his life.

“I’m sorry,” he ventures. “For everything I said. From the beginning until now.”

That doesn’t even begin to cover it, but to his surprise, they only sigh. With a single blink, their judgement dispels into reluctance. They fold their arms and nod at him to continue.

“You’ve been through- you’ve been through so much more than I will ever be able to understand. So it’s really not my place to tell you what is and isn’t possible to overcome.” He shoves up the sleeves of his blazer, wishing for the loose sleeves of his usual shirt. “I get- I get what you mean, okay? I know what you mean, that there’s always a second, or even a third option.

“It’s just,” and here he pauses, hoping that it isn’t too flimsy, “really hard, sometimes. To see that there’s any kind of- god, this sounds so fucking dumb, but hope. It’s hard to be hopeful.

“But I want to get there. And talking to you, and talking to Lyosha, and- and playing piano with you, it’s helping. See, this time last year,” he adds, running a hand through his hair, “I was in a- in a pretty desperate place. Much worse than now. But now I actually, actively want to stop being so passive. I want to actually live, y’know?” He laughs, and for once he doesn’t care how it sounds so long as it’s his own. “Which is kinda weird, for me, but I’ll take it.

“Except that doesn’t change the fact that I shouldn’t have been so harsh. In, like, everything. I’ve kind of been a rude bitch at times. Okay, actually, just a straight-up rude bitch, and all the time. and you- you didn’t deserve that, you’re putting up with enough already. And I guess even if you weren’t putting up with anything, I still shouldn’t talk to you like that. Or anyone else. And I can’t say it _won’t_ happen again, but I’ll do my best that it doesn’t. Okay?”

He falls silent and catches his breath as he awaits a response.

Everett doesn’t speak for a long moment, long enough that Chisaki’s probably waiting outside with bated breath to hurl him out the nearest window. He stays even as their expression turns turbulent, then as glassy calm as the sea before a gathering storm. It doesn’t really hit them how much he’s overstayed his welcome until they finally respond, and he’s about ready to jump out the window himself when they do.

“Alright,” they say, slowly.

Sentarou freezes as they weigh their words.

“I think… I think I get it. And I think I can understand.” They nod. “I forgive you, first of all.”

Well. That’s unexpected.

“What?”

“Yeah. I don’t really know what’s going on with your brother and everything, but it’s obvious he’s hurting you by forcing you to stay, and you’re kinda not in the best place for seeing these ways out that I keep talking about. I’m really glad that Bazhanov and I are able to help, but christ, dude, I’m just glad you’re still around at this point, and like, not dead.” Everett shrugs. “So, yeah, forgiven and forgotten.”

He just stares at them. “That’s it? It’s that simple?”

“Mhm. I’m not fucking Kashizaki-chan, y’know, I don’t hold grudges.” Everett folds their arms and leans back in their chair. “Obviously what you did was not great, but I’m really glad that you’re able to recognize that it wasn’t great. I think you’re a good person, Sekisada-san. You do some pretty dumb shit sometimes, but that doesn’t change your intentions. I think your actions are getting better, too. Plus, y’know, at the end of the day, we’re friends. I can’t say that about a lot of people.”

“Friends?”

“Yeah, friends.” They blink. “Do you not want to be?”

“No, no, of course, it’s just…”

Weirdly enough, it makes sense - talking to Everett does feel less strained, less awkward than to other people, and definitely less than it had been before. The idea that they feel that he’s worth having in their life is… comforting? More strange, than anything, and yet completely natural. The more he thinks about it, the less odd it seems.

Friends. He can live with that. 

So this time, the words don’t even stick in his throat as he tells them, “Thank you.”

Everett only waves it off. “Anytime, dude. Thanks for talking to me.”

“No, thanks for talking to _me._ I was worried I’d never get past Chisaki-san’s defenses.”

Everett actually laughs at that one, and Sentarou’s heart might just swell. Maybe just a little. Maybe this is what it’s like to be appreciated by others. Maybe he could stand to experience this a little more.

“So, I’ll see you tomorrow? Same time, same place?” he asks, probably awkwardly, probably a little too eagerly. They smile at him, looking for once completely untroubled.

“I will absolutely see you tomorrow,” they agree. “I’ll make sure to practice before you get there. I haven’t played in a few days, anyway.”

“I’m sure you sound fine,” he tells them. “You’re an excellent pianist, Everett-san,” he adds, and is surprised by how much he means it.

Everett’s shy smile in response is worth the momentary awkwardness. “Thank you,” they tell him, “and you, too.”

He leaves the room smiling.

(“You’re lucky you escaped this time, nerd,” Chisaki hisses when he passes her.

“I completely agree,” he says blandly, and leaves her to puzzle over how sarcastic he’s being.)

* * *

“But the keyboard’s still broken, and Valdez-kun’s in Fukushima for his wind turbine stuff this month, so he can’t fix it.” Everett taps their chin. “I guess we could take turns practicing with the piano, but how would we do runthroughs?”

“I have an idea. Hang on.”

* * *

The next week, Sentarou watches Everett’s expression as they walk through the door. Their eyebrows knit together, then lift, then their whole expression opens up in disbelief and wonder as they behold the brand-new piano in front of them.

Slowly, they run their hand along the cover, then lift it. Each note rings like velvet, smooth and resonant and perfectly tuned. Even a relative beginner like Everett can see the quality of the instrument, but when they replace the keyboard cover and turn to him, their expression holds a question he doesn’t recognize.

“How expensive was this?” they ask, and the desperation in their voice surprises him more than he expected. “Did you- did you buy this yourself? I can’t pay you back-”

“You don’t have to,” he says, whisking off the cover again to expose the glimmering keys. “I didn’t pay for this.”

“Don’t tell me you stole it,” they press, eyes flicking back and forth. “I can’t- I’m, uh, pretty sure you can’t graduate if you get arrested. Haha.” They roll their shoulders back, paste on the same vacant smile he recognizes from the tabloids. “Sekisada-san-”

“Everett-san,” he interrupts, taking the sheets in their hands. They let it go with little resistance, eyes like a cornered animal, and he gives them what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry. The money isn't mine. I borrowed my brother’s credit card, okay? He won’t even notice the money’s gone, really.”

(And even if he does, that’s a lecture Sentarou will gladly take on their behalf.)

“It’s okay,” he tells them. With what he hopes comes across as more deliberation than force, he places the music on the new piano and opens it to the correct page. “You’re allowed to just play, alright? You can have this. It’s for you.”

They’re standing so close that he thinks he can catch the breath stopping in their chest, and at last they nod, whisper a thank-you, and nearly collapse onto the bench. The opening notes ring out so much more beautifully, as church bells after a hurricane, and it’s only then that they finally start crying. Sentarou hands them a box of tissues and a bottle of water and doesn’t say a word, only waits for them as they laugh through their tears.

“It’s perfect,” they say, voice still breaking but held together enough that they can get the words out.

They play, and to no one’s surprise it is actually not perfect. It will probably never be perfect. There’s only so much a brand-new piano can do for a pair of high school students, each with less than ten years of experience. Somehow, they manage to make it through the piece in the first runthrough they’ve done in months.

Everett purses their lips. “We missed a lot of cues,” they point out.

“But we’re getting there,” Sentarou tells them, and they nod.

They try again, and they get a little closer.

* * *

“Everett-san?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you prefer -chan or -kun?”

“I actually, uh, don’t really know. I guess I don’t mind -kun that much? But the mastermind- y’know, Kataoka-san, she was the only one in the camp who called me Everett-chan, so- so, um, definitely not that.”

“Oh. Yeah, of course, I understand. I’m sorry.”

“... But, if you really want to show everyone that we’re friends or whatever, I’d be fine with you calling me Aster.”

“I can’t do that. Not even Chisaki-san calls you Aster.”

“Yeah, but that’s ‘cause she’s Tsuki. She doesn’t really do first names ever. Plus, Tsuki never bought me a piano.”

“Wow, who knew the way to your heart was a charitable donation to a school.”

A soft laugh. A brief lull, a few measures of a melody. Everett falls into time with his playing, the alternating beats lining up perfectly.

“Aster.”

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out.”

“I guess you could call me Sentarou, if you really wanted to.”

“If you’re sure? My first name isn’t a big deal. Y’know, cuz America and everything. But I know for you it must be different because of Japan’s culture-”

“Honestly, Lyosha kind of numbed me to caring about first names at this point. So you can do what you want.”

“Hm.”

Another pause, this one simply silent.

“Sentarou…”

“What?”

“Your name’s got the kanji for ‘serene’, right?”

“Eh, yeah. It’s also got the kanji for ‘hermit’ in it, so take that as you will.”

“Ha. I’m just thinking, it suits you.”

“Why?”

“Doesn’t the kanji for ‘serene’ also mean ‘melodious’? You’re really talented at piano, you know. So it suits you!”

“I guess I never thought of it that way.”

“What, the alternate readings?”

“No, just that my name is something to be proud of.”

“Well, of course. You might have your brother’s name, but you’re your own person, too, y’know.”

They graze the keys, leave off on a final flourish, and turn to him. The piano before him is so new that he can see their face reflected in the lacquered surface even as he stops playing.

“And I think,” Everett says, “that person is pretty great.”

* * *

When Valdez finally gets around to fixing the keyboard, the first thing Everett does is ask Kikuchi to come and listen to them play. He does so with a scowl, arms folded as he watches Sentarou pick out notes on the keyboard. When Sentarou finishes the delicate music box melody that Everett pointed out to him, Kikuchi’s expression doesn’t change for a solid minute.

“Not bad,” he says finally. “But did Aster really bring me all the way here to listen to a fucking music box arrangement of Never Gonna Give You Up?”

All Sentarou can do is stare at him blankly as Everett collapses into laughter. Apparently they forgot to inform him what a “rickroll” is.

(Kikuchi approves of their duet, though, and doesn’t even make any threats on Sentarou’s life after the incident a few months ago. It’s more than he could have hoped for.)

* * *

Graduation feels like a footnote at this point, but they get there. They graduate, and the rest of their lives lie before them.

He waits for the signal, the start of something that could have swept him and everyone else he knew up in tragedy, the same glamorous carnage he’s been so desperate to avoid. The same kind that he knows has been in planning for years, now; disproportionate for the prank that incited it, which was of course disproportionate for the initial aggressor. Everything a greater magnitude of vengeance and lies, one that he’s made a point to be minimally involved in.

Perhaps, in another world, the idea that’d been proposed to him is one he would have pursued. In another world, he could have funneled his time and money into this evil to see what would happen. In another world, five years’ worth of his nightmares could have come true before him, with his own classmates pawns in the tabloids’ chessboards. In this world, however, he has Everett, and he has Lyosha, and he has his piano, and maybe that’s enough to stave it all off.

But still. Something could happen.

He hopes against all hope that nothing does.

* * *

…

And nothing happens.

Of course nothing happens, and Sentarou pretends he never doubted it for a second. He walks now like the mythical Atlas freed.

Weeks pass, then months. It’s well into May that the Hasunokei staff finally get tired of its recent graduates loitering in their music room and forbid them from coming back to the campus. By this point, the two have them have come far enough that it doesn’t really matter.

(The staff let Everett keep the keyboard, though.)

And by this point, Danganronpa 50 has come and gone, leaving behind its trademark shattered survivors. Strictly speaking, Everett has no need to be at today’s interview. In fact, more of a risk for them to be here. If they’re recognized, surely they’ll get roped into another interview themselves.

But, as Everett pointed out, it’s a beautiful day on the cusp of summer, and the day of the first interview that Sentarou will have to sit in on for this long season of glorified miseries. They wanted to be supportive of him, and they wanted even more to just play something, already. The piece had been ready to go for about a month, and both of them agree that they’re starting to get sick of it. Everett’s already started looking for another song for them to try out.

But that’s for later, of course. Right now, Everett pulls a face as they draw up the first piano bench. “Why are there even two pianos?” they ask, testing the pedals. “Shouldn’t one be enough to say that hey, we’re Team Danganronpa and we’re filthy fucking rich?”

“I don’t know, I’m not in charge of this interior design nonsense.” Sentarou tugs at his tuxedo sleeves. Hopefully they’re not too wrinkled. “I don’t know who is or would be. Maybe PR?”

“I blame your brother. Not for any real reason, I just think he sucks,” Lyosha says next to him, hiding a smirk as he fiddles with the camera. “This is going to be an enormous spit in the face to him. Provided you post it, of course.”

Adamant, Everett and then Sentarou shake their heads. “Too much publicity,” Everett explains. “I’m already tired of getting stopped in the streets. I don’t want people knowing more about me.”

“No one knows anything about me and that’s how I like it,” Sentarou adds. “So, yeah, no, this is just for posterity or something.”

Lyosha gives them both a thumbs up as Sentarou walks to his own piano bench, just meters away. This distance would have been impossible to cross if he were the person he’d been eight months ago. The reclusive, standoffish person he’d been would balk at the idea of even performing in public, and probably would have given up on music a long time ago.

Now, though, he takes each step as if it doesn’t matter who watches him, which he supposes it no longer does. He takes a seat, stretches his fingers, rolls up the sleeves he was just now so worried about wrinkling, and glances across the room again. Everett watches him, and when he’s finally done with his preparations, they nod once.

Of course, no one understands the significance here. Most passers-by certainly don’t recognize Sentarou, and those who see Everett as their hands fly across the keys wouldn’t connect them with the exhausted and increasingly snappy archer they see on the television screens. All they see is two teenagers playing an exceptionally difficult piano piece, breathing in perfect time as they signal entrances to each other from across the room.

It’s been a long eight months, but they’re here now. Both of them, still shrouded by tragedy they may not ever be free from, but making light of it anyway.

And, at last, Sentarou can breathe.

They play piano.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * "a lilting waltz": [Cradle Waltz,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fBmwEUCXO7A) M2U
>   * [Invention No. 9 in F Minor](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R2M-wEvs1E4), Bach
>   * "some kind of movie theme": [Once Upon A December](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rKG1ihuFGPs), arranged Bob Cerulli
>   * [Prelude in C# Minor](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wXQCPAR0EHo), Rachmaninoff
>   * "a Yorushika arrangement": [Rain With Cappuccino](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dwNZhHGGIgA), Yorushika (fukane cover)
>   * [Never Gonna Give You Up](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nxeA7_XRxiY), Rick Astley (R3 Music Box arrangement)
>   * [Rondo for 97 Keys](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cX2AbbEwTbs), Sakuzyo
>     * An officially produced score for two pianos can be found [here.](http://sakuzyo.net/Rondo_for_2Pianos.pdf)
> 



	3. this costume party's over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ["you're too young, you're never gonna know what hit me when i fell down in silence"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JDfqFPumGA8)   
>  _- **costume party,** two door cinema club_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNING:** Arc Spoilers (Brendan Valdez)  
>  **LABEL:** Character Study  
>  **SUMMARY:** It's too quiet.

He sits alone in the middle of a blank white bed surrounded by blank white walls and it's far too bright to sleep.  
  
Here is a boy, just barely 19, sitting in a room in a house where he is a face and a name but not a presence. He smiles, he follows, he does what is asked of him - and in these situations you can't ask for much more. In these situations, he is friendly but not close, polite and distant and yearning for a kind of bond that can't be found in a bedroom in a mansion in a killing game in the sprawling, verdant peaks so far from home, his real home.  
  
This is a boy who is quiet who is optimistic who is innovative who is talented who is a _burden_ , unfortunately, though there is nothing to really prove this. It's not as if his parents do not care, and it's not as if they treat him poorly, but there is simply too much other about him that he shouldn't be loved the way they insist that he can and is. Still, they smile at him with grins that he's sure cannot be anything more than painted, and pat him on the back with condolences and biological limbs.  
  
Study hard, his parents said. Get a good education. Help people, and they will help you. One day, you'll be rewarded for your struggles. You'll see. For now, just try hard. And he tries hard, memorizing schematics and formulas, tracing blueprints with his gaze and fingertips, and he buries himself in his work.  
  
The problem here is that, when you bury yourself in work, not everyone else does the same. Life goes on without you. Friendships are made and broken and none of it involves you. When you do try, you become too kind and too naive and everything you've ever loved crashes down around you in a hateful sort of spiral and you wish you had never bothered.  
  
Perhaps it is safer to be on the fringes, then, seen but mostly ignored. Maybe no one will remember you, but no one will hate you; no one will care about you - REALLY care about you, but no one will object to your existence. There's lots of benefits to being ignored, anyhow! People won't notice if you're doing your own thing, and people won't hold you to certain trends or a lack thereof. So long as you're ordinary, there's nothing to fear!  
  
Two problems with that:  
(fig. 1) Brendan Valdez is very much out of the ordinary;  
(fig. 2) sometimes it's lonely to be ignored, to exist but be forgotten, to be a friend but never meaningful.  
  
And all of these problems can maybe be solved if he just thinks about them hard enough, if he traces the wiring of a social situation back to the start, if he rewinds everything to the very beginning. But now he sits alone in a room and curfew's long past and he isn't any closer to falling asleep than he is to making a single connection that'll last after his death.  
  
Because that's always how it is with these things. The invisible one dies because no one has reason to care about them. They have no friends, no impact, no legacy, and that's how it's always been. Everyone else matters more, you see, so it's a necessary sacrifice.  
  
And an inevitable one.  
  
He turns off the light and tries to sleep through the night through the blinding walls through his writhing, choking fears; but it doesn't work.


	4. let loose a love all pent up and painfully out of place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dark sky lit on fire, a set of scars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic is marked for revision bc i changed some things in canon but haven't gotten around to fixing this lol
> 
>  **WARNING:** Ch4 spoilers, mentions and repercussions of child abuse  
>  **LABEL:** Canon  
>  **SUMMARY:** Who decides if you deserve to exist?
> 
> Title taken from "Problems" by Mother Mother.

The sky is orange tonight.

It's tragic, Saichi muses to themself, hands in their pockets in the dead air. The opening night of a play no one will remember in three years' time. Something that could have been great, if not for the lackluster roles they've cast. A set of washups and half-wits. Unimpressive in nearly every regard.

Actually, they'd heard about someone performing under Katsuyoshi Beniya's name tonight, which is curious. In all their years of theater work, Beniya had never been known to take on a protege. An actor claiming him as inspiration is a possibility, of course, but he’s notorious for shooting those down as soon as they arise; something about not wanting to bring more attention to himself than he already has. Within the bounds of what’s feasible, it isn't outside the realm of plausibility for him to have finally trained a student; the man was extraordinarily private about his offstage life, after all. Perhaps this successor could have elevated the work beyond the constraints of its mediocrity.

At least this way, the performance will be remembered. The overboard stunts they'd had planned were far too reckless, and look where that got them. The sirens are much brighter than the flames.

They lean against the wall of the theater and watch the haze curl into open air. With a sigh, they close their eyes.

A slam.

Saichi jolts into motion; the movement sets their heart slamming against their ribs as well. They whirl, already reaching for the flashlight in their cloak, already leaping to a defensive stance-

Amber light falls out of the doorway behind them. They blink, the glow too sharp on unshielded eyes (sunglasses were a hinderance, considering the hour and their already poor vision), and brace for impact.

They notice the crying before the boy.

Slowly, Saichi leans down to look at him. He scrambles back, eyes wide, his neck and face pale in the backstage glow. They stare into eyes too dark in the monochrome, yet altogether too bright with tears. And perhaps it is simply the fact that they had been thinking about Beniya, but there is something about the shape of their nose and the crease in their brow that bears more than passing resemblance to the actor.

Something clicks. In the rush of evacuation, a hurried shout about someone being caught in the crossfire; an actor standing just a bit too close to the falling flames. At the moment, it seemed obvious that they should have escaped. After all, they must have been an adult, right? Surely they had just been lost in the shuffle, and surely they were accounted for, and surely they had loved ones looking for them.

The child before them cannot be much older than a middle schooler. The light shines too harshly on damp skin, and it's only now that they realize that the markings on his neck are glistening with the fluid of fresh burns.

Their throat closes.

Oh, god.

Oh, god, that was _him._

He flinches when Saichi takes his hand, stumbles as they lead him along, but does not protest even when they scoop him up entirely and deposit him in the backseat of their rental car. The crying quiets unnaturally quickly - so fast that they're worried he'd passed out - but when they look back at him, he merely sits, eyes forward and expression completely controlled.

He does not say a word. Neither does Saichi. They just drive.

* * *

Saichi Tatsuoka is a lot of things. Dramatic, yes. The penchant for capes, shades, and high heels attests to that. Intimidating? They don't see it, really, aside from said high heels. Though it isn't necessarily uncomfortable to be perceived as fearsome, and it does have its benefits. Yet without all of the clothing, they are no different from anyone else. Despite the avant-garde persona they cultivate, Saichi is at least _human._ And it is human nature to care.

As soon as the hospital calls them, they drive back. They walk into a hospital room made blinding in fluorescent light, the sheer sterility of it all an assault on their senses. Merely one of many reasons to despise medical settings. With careful steps, they approach the furthest bed, made up with enough cushions for its patient to prop himself upright.

"Hello," they tell the boy.

In the light and the aftermath of a few days, it's easier to make out his features. Singed hair frames a round face, his neck and chest wrapped in gauze. Silently, they pray that the thick bandages enveloping half his ribcage are an excessive precaution and not the extent of his injuries. But it's his eyes that stand out, a dark red that holds both emptiness and the weight of the world.

It's these dulled eyes that stare at Saichi now without curiosity. There is no longer any question of parentage.

"I didn't know Beniya-san had a child," Saichi tells him.

He does not respond.

They try again. "Were you in the audience?"

Maybe he's incapable of speech. Maybe he's just too exhausted to parse a word of what they're saying. Just as they begin to accept the silence, the vaguest motion alerts them to a response.

He shakes his head. The breath hitches in their chest.

If he wasn't in the audience, then it follows that he's a member of the stage crew. Which would make a very small amount of sense, if only because someone as short as he is would be good for navigating the props and wires involved in the play's practical effects. And it'd make sense, right? For Beniya's child to be close to the action, but not close enough to be in harm's way.

But there was a too-small face painted over in powder. They barely paid attention to it that night, only to wonder if the actor was perhaps a high schooler or a particularly skilled apprentice. There was no way that a mere child would be able to perform to the extent that they did, everything controlled and engineered for perfection.

Distantly, they remember wide eyes before the fire fell around them.

The child drops his gaze.

Their next question is whether they should contact Beniya, but something stops them. The child before them looks even younger in the light, and he's just so dreadfully _small,_ and… 

And those eyes are too hollow.

Another thing that Saichi is known to be is overly expressive. Yet the first indication that they register of their expression clouding over with anger is the suddenly-stiff outlines of the child in front of them. They force their features back into neutrality, instincts screaming in sympathy and rage. What the hell did Beniya do to him?

As they watch him close his eyes, a deep and bitter revulsion settles in the pit of Saichi's stomach. Beniya or otherwise, there is absolutely no way that they are letting this child back in the custody of whoever let him be placed in this situation.

The staff did not ask questions when Saichi identified themself as his guardian. They do not ask questions when, two months later, they step out of the building with the child following them, still mute. Is this kidnapping? This is probably kidnapping. Well, who cares. Saichi may not know how to raise a child, but they are going to learn.

Thankfully, the child does not protest when they leave Kyoto.

* * *

They don't know what to call him, at first. He does not provide a name. In fact, he doesn't speak for days, though he seemed surprised when Saichi showed him the rooms he would be sleeping in. It was too much of a hassle to leave the theater every night, and it's not as if they weren't totally devoted to their work, anyway, so they'd set up an apartment hidden backstage; with some doing, they'd managed to clear out another space for the boy.

He spends a lot of time asleep. Really, he only rests for the first week, only waking for the barest necessities. Which was plenty of time for Saichi to do some research - something about schooling, something about trauma, something about legal custody. And something about lawsuits. The last one does not seem like something they'd like to pursue at the moment, given how much it costs and how much of their savings have now gone toward raising a child.

Later, though. Later, if they can afford it, they will pursue litigation. There is no question of that.

And it leaves time for other research, too. Internet searches turn up nothing, but the constant stream of actors and productions that come through the theater is slightly more useful. Eventually, through friend-of-a-friend conversations, pointed discussions, and half a bottle of quality bourbon, they manage to confirm the child's existence from a colleague. Another quarter of the bottle, and they get a name.

On the eighth day, they tap the doorframe of the tiny room.

"Akiichi?"

The child looks up at them, expressionless as always. There's a flicker of recognition in his expression, but he does not respond otherwise. It's not as if Saichi really expected one, anyway.

Regardless, it's good to see that he's doing alright. They smile warmly and take a seat on one of the boxes they're using as furniture until they can acquire some actual chairs and tables. "I don't think we were ever properly introduced, by the way. My name is Saichi Tatsuoka, and I'm the manager here at Kabukiza Theater."

Still no response. The only indication of his unease is the slightest of downward tugs at the corners of his mouth.

In the silence, they merely regard their ward. Clearly, he will need an education. If Beniya had been holding him to the same 10-hour regimen that he prides himself on - and, looking at how exhausted this child is even two months after his injuries, that doesn't seem unlikely - he likely had minimal schooling. It's also very possible that he doesn't know how to read, which is admittedly slightly intimidating to teach, but something they've prepared resources for in case they need to.

Of course, it’s clear that Saichi themself is going to have a hand in his education. The thought of having children has always been a horrifying one - biologically or otherwise - and this concept had initially given them pause. However, at least at this time, it would be much too difficult to explain the situation to a third party, and how would they even keep his existence secret? Better not to bring a tutor into the fold. Better to learn how to teach, themself, and… Maybe not be a parent, necessarily, but a guardian. A guardian sounds doable.

Still, in an ideal world, he would attend an actual school at some point. Have a chance to make friends his own age. That would be nice. Prospect after daydream drifts through their mind, unfurling before them as cards in a winning hand.

The whisper is so quiet that they don't catch it at first. When they look up, he's staring at them.

Tentatively, Saichi returns their gaze. "Did you say something?" they ask.

Akiichi hesitates for just a moment before his mouth moves. Out comes a raspy voice, light and just barely held together.

"I'm sorry," he says, slightly louder. "For making you take care of me."

All Saichi can do for a moment is stare at him quietly. The sunglasses on their face hopefully cover the tears welling in their good eye.

"You didn't make me do anything. I wanted you to be okay, alright? And I realize that what I did wasn't necessarily ethical," they add, half-chuckling. "But it would have been cruel to let you go untreated."

"He will kill me when he finds me," he says, voice flat, and it takes a moment for Saichi to place who he's referring to. Something cold grips their heart until it freezes over. The tears turn to ice, then recede entirely.

They pull themself to their feet. Akiichi's gaze fixes on the razor-sharp stilettos that they balance on with ease. The heels are impressive enough on their own, but years of practice have made Saichi steady on their feet and much quicker than someone _without_ heels.

It is intimidating.

"I will see to it personally that that doesn't happen," they say evenly.

His gaze returns to the floor. They soften.

"I want you to be safe. I want to make sure that you're okay. For now, I'll need you to keep hidden, though," they add. "I don't know how I would explain your presence without admitting that you aren't my child. Can you do that for me?"

"Yes," they agree, too quickly. "And- and I'm sorry."

"You have nothing to apologize for-"

"I'll do better."

Saichi frowns, but lets it go. For now. They move to rustle Akiichi's hair, but he recoils when they approach, so they let that go as well. It’s more than fair, considering what he must have been through. In all likelihood, they will never understand what exactly the person before them has been through, and for that their heart breaks.

When they leave, they instruct Akiichi to let them know if they need anything. They check in every few hours just to be sure.

* * *

It takes a few nights to adjust to the new reality of Akiichi talking. It also takes a few nights to get him to actually sleep on the futon instead of the floor, and that in itself is extraordinarily worrisome. Of course, that includes a lot of things about him. Namely, the not-sleeping.

Granted, it took a while to get Akiichi to eat properly, although he mumbled something about it hurting his throat more than anything. But he has an appetite, and in fact does not seem all too reluctant to eat. Frankly, the amount of instant noodles he goes through is impressive. Which makes sense, at least. You need to eat in order to have energy to burn at all.

But sleeping. _Sleeping._

The first week, when Saichi checked in at 2 am to find him still awake, they assume it's a one-off thing. The fifth time, and they start looking into delayed sleep phase disorder. It is a month into his residence at Kabukiza that Saichi wakes up at 5 am to find Akiichi still awake. When they walk into the room, he freezes, halfway through a routine he’s still mouthing the words to.

The apologies come first, a bubbling mess of platitudes and desperation, and they figure it's more because of their expression than anything related to their concerns. They hold up a hand, and again he shies away, but they only wait patiently for the words to finally peter out. From what it seems, Akiichi didn't get many opportunities to talk except to avoid consequence, which is- no. Not now. It's not a good idea to mix their anger with Beniya with this situation.

“I’m not mad,” they clarify, and Akiichi’s expression contorts back into neutrality. This, they have found, does not belie his emotional state at all. “Did you use that lotion I gave you today?”

“Yes,” he says, and blinks. Their question seems to have taken him off guard, and he runs a hand over his neck protectively. “Why?”

“Just making sure. I’m worried about your burns, of course. And worried about you in general.” Saichi folds their arms. “How come you’re still up? Do you usually do that?”

“I haven’t done enough to sleep yet.”

They say nothing. They just stare at Akiichi.

After a few moments of this, he starts to fidget, picking at the burns that curl on his face. “I said that wrong,” he says softly. “I’ll- I won’t bother you again.”

Saichi is going to murder Katsuyoshi Beniya with their bare fucking hands, first of all. Secondly:

“You’re not a bother. Even if you were, it wouldn’t matter, because you are my ward. I am responsible for your well-being, regardless of what I think of you,” they tell him. “And I am extremely concerned about your sleeping habits.”

Akiichi only stands, evidently trying to hold himself stock-still, but just as evidently failing. He sways on his feet, compensating every few seconds or so until eventually settling into a stiff, sturdy pose. That is also very concerning. “I’ll try again,” he offers, and there’s no real conviction in it. Saichi sighs.

“You haven’t done anything wrong,” they remind him as gently as they can. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“But,” he says, and draws his expression too tightly, “I am?”

There are tells, of course; Akiichi is not entirely unemotive. He tends to shake uncontrollably when upset, or worried that he's doing something wrong. Right now, he is still aside from looking as if he'll fall over, so his confusion seems genuine. Having a very deep conversation when he's so obviously sleep deprived all but guarantees the lesson will not stick, but it seems Saichi has no other choice.

They walk into the room and gesture for Akiichi to take a seat. When that doesn't work, they press their lips together. "Please sit down."

Gingerly, he does so, perching on the edge of the futon as if ready to spring to his feet again at any moment. Saichi sits down on the floor themself and leans over, tenting their hands.

How to put this. How to be gentle, but firm. How to say something to this child that they would have said to their younger self in a situation that was never quite as dark as the one before them, but had approached it at times. Still, though. They breathe in.

"Sleep is a basic human need," they tell him, "and you need to get enough of it in order to grow. You are already scarily small for your age. I'm glad you're eating well, but that's not enough."

Akiichi remains expressionless, but he's at least watching them as they speak. Saichi pauses, weighing the next words.

"More than that, you need to sleep to survive. And if you don't sleep enough, your immune system will go to hell. And I cannot explain to the hospital who you are without proper documentation. I know we did fine in Kyoto, but that's because the situation was too critical not to treat you, and they didn't ask enough questions about who you were. Frankly, I'm slightly concerned about that, too. I should file a complaint someday."

"I'm usually fine if I get sick," Akiichi offers, and all Saichi does is close their eyes tight and count to three.

What. The FUCK. Is wrong. With Beniya.

"Look," Saichi says, and takes off their sunglasses.

Now, their permanently closed right eye is on full display, and Akiichi's own eyes drift to it.

They tap the lid and the gnarled scar tissue sealing it shut. "I didn't have a great time of it growing up, either. But I lived through it, and I can look back at everything that's happened. So to speak, of course."

They snicker to themself, though their ward does not seem very impressed. When the moment passes, Saichi's smile fades; they continue without levity.

"What you and I went through was not normal. The treatment that Beniya-san put you through was _not normal._ It shouldn't have happened to you, and I am sorry that it did. But. It's over, if I have anything to say about it, and I am doing my best to make sure that you are well cared for. And that means- Akiichi-san, you need to sleep."

"I haven't done enough to deserve that."

The answer is immediate, sharp enough to send a myriad of knives through Saichi's heart. They would reach out to hug the child, if he had not already demonstrated an extreme aversion to physical contact, so they settle for sitting back.

"You do not need to do anything to deserve humane treatment. No one gets to say otherwise."

Surreptitiously, they survey his face. The only response they get is the idle tracing of still-too-bright scars. Again, they sigh.

"I would like it if you at least rest for today," they suggest.

"Okay."

Saichi stares at him. He stares back.

When Saichi returns to the room, Akiichi is predictably still rehearsing, and he stumbles again when they enter. Instead of lecturing him, however, Saichi simply sits him down and gives him a chart of hiragana.

They only get through an hour of lessons before Akiichi nods off, but the next Saichi hears of him awake is when he asks them to read.

* * *

Their ward gets through at least one case of instant ramen every two weeks. It isn't as if Saichi doesn't provide other food, and he does at least eat other things with the ramen. He just wants to eat two packages of cheap chicken-flavored noodles a day, apparently.

After a good three months of this, they start to mentally refer to him as Maru. It’s a joke at first - the Maruchan brand of noodles converts quite nicely into the affectionate Maru-chan - but he does not comment. In fact, when they accidentally let it slip a few times, he seems much more accepting of the moniker than their birth name. So much so that it ends up sticking.

* * *

As far as Saichi is concerned, a flip phone is more than capable of carrying out their everyday business. Texting is a pain, of course, but it's not as if they're very good at it anyway. If someone would like to get in touch with them, they can always call or email.

It's this phone that they snap shut when their ward steps out of the office looking shaken, drawn, and far too scared. They open their mouth and are cut off almost immediately.

"I'm not going back."

Saichi does not press. The drive home from therapy is silent.

When they get back, Maru immediately shuts himself in his room. The fact that he doesn't seem to be moving in the space doesn't stop Saichi from pacing the length of the hallway until they're called away to meet with a show's director.

Afterwards, despite the late hour, they tap at the now-open doorway. "Maru-chan?"

Maru looks up from his desk and the character practice he's working on, the warm light bouncing off scars that will probably never fully heal. He automatically moves his chair so he's facing Saichi as they pull up another.

"I'm sorry," he says, and Saichi fights the urge to roll their eyes. Nearly every conversation with him involves his apologizing at some point.

"You have nothing to apologize for," they say, crossing one leg over the other. "I just wanted to check in on you after earlier today. Is everything okay?"

"Yes," Maru replies, and it is of course more mechanical than anything.

Again, Saichi does not press, and only holds out a hand for the character practice. He hands it to them dutifully before reaching for a book on the desk. Flipping through the kanji packet, it's obvious that he's been throwing himself into his work. Picking up grammar structure doesn't seem to be a problem, considering how surprisingly articulate he is; it's simply been a matter of learning how to put sound to paper. Math is another story, of course, but hopefully he'll be able to test into at least one high school. Which they'll probably have to heavily vet anyway to make sure it's a good fit, but that's just a given at this point.

Only when they look up do they notice that Maru has stopped reading.

"Yes?" they ask, shuffling the papers back together. "Your work is excellent, by the way, though you might need to stop pressing so hard on the pencil."

"Of course." Maru flicks a page back and forth before laying his thumb to rest on the edge of the page. "I was… just wondering."

"I'll do my best to answer." Could this be about the botched therapy session? It's definitely not something to dive right into if you're not in a mindset to start it, and in many cases it can take two or three therapists to find someone who will actually address your concerns in a way you're comfortable with. So while of course it's disappointing that this one was no help (and perhaps was even harmful), it's also possible that now just isn't a good time for it.

They are not so preoccupied with this that they miss Maru's stumbling starts, and the hesitant swipe of his hands as he tries to put the words together. They wait patiently for him to stutter it out.

"I… thought you were a woman," he says, hesitantly, and ducks away even as Saichi tries to control their expression. "But- but people don't refer to you as one, and I was- I was curious. About what that means?"

… Hm. That's a bit of a curveball. How to address this. Saichi taps their foot against the ground before replying. "Sometimes, people don't feel like they identify with the gender they're born as."

Maru nods. "I know. Like… like Ishihara-san."

"Yes, he's one of those individuals." They really need to ask him to perform here again, really. "But there are also people who don't feel like they are strictly male or female. People who feel in-between, or neither, or both, or maybe a little bit more of one or the other. It's a spectrum."

"I see," he says, and the continued fidgeting is indication enough of his confusion.

"You're right, I am biologically female. But I don't identify with it at all. Not like Ishihara-san, where he identifies closely with being male. It's more like." They tap their foot again, biting their lip. "It's something like a mix? For me, anyway. And personally, gender-neutral language is the best fit to what I feel, so it's what I ask people refer to me as. There are also people, though, who don't identify with either gender and still use gendered language. Or people who use different language altogether. It really depends."

"What is gender supposed to be, then?"

"Whatever you want to be."

The idle fidgeting progresses to scar picking. Saichi sighs. This is probably too much to unload on a 13-year-old, but he’s just curious.

“It’s like this. I hated being seen as a girl, because someone who was unkind to me valued only my femininity. So I wanted to reject all of that. But for some people, it’s physically painful to have characteristics that don’t fit what they perceive themself to be. I don’t have much of that unless I think about it too hard, but that doesn’t make me less of who I am.”

“Right,” Maru says, and places his hands in his lap.

"As you've noted, it's impossible for nonbinary people, including myself, to make people think that they're not a binary gender by mere appearance. Although I do try," they add, gesturing to their current ensemble of high waisted pants and a combination cape and wrap top. "But some days I don't feel like presenting more masculinely, and I have to accept that strangers that I run into will assume that I am female. For what it's worth, however, I am very openly out to the people who I interact with on a business level. I don't work with clients who refuse to respect my identity or anyone else's."

They squint through their glasses as he continues to sit in silence, pondering what they’ve said. Finally, he nods. “That makes sense.”

“If you ever have any other questions, I’ll answer them to the best of my ability,” they tell him. “About this or anything else. Okay?”

“Okay.” He hesitates. “There’s another thing to talk about.”

“Go for it.”

“I wasted both of our time today at that- that doctor’s office,” he says, and his shoulders now slump. “So- so, if you want me to go back, I’m alright with that-“

Saichi shakes their head. “No, don’t worry about it. While I do want you to have another person to help you through what you grew up with, it should be someone you trust. And I understand that you might not be in a good place for that, and that’s alright. If you ever want to talk about anything, I’m here.”

A pause, and Maru does not respond. Saichi lowers their glasses to get a better look at his features drawn taut and merely press their lips together.

"What did they do?" they ask, cooly.

It takes a while to get it out of him. They try not to interrogate or make it seem like they want a certain answer, and watch his fidgeting. His stammering responses are hesitant but genuine - something about recoiling at scars and shutting him down and telling him that things that happened were not real, and-

Saichi holds up a hand and steps out of the room. They open their phone, dial the therapist’s office, and prepare a complaint for the receptionist.

* * *

"Congratulations."

Maru looks at the cake, then back at Saichi. To say he looks terrified is an understatement. "Y- you said you didn't want me to perform."

"I don't, but you said you wanted to anyway, and I won't stop you if that's what you want." They shrug. "Besides, this was your first real performance, wasn't it?"

Hesitant, Maru nods. Ideally, of course, he won't be doing this his whole life. Ideally, he'll find something that he genuinely enjoys, and never look back. But forcing him to give up his entire life's structure for Saichi's idea of "safety" is far from ideal, and would probably lead to more problems than it's worth. He had to hide his scars to perform, of course, but he'd clearly managed to pull that off with the help of way too much makeup.

So they shove it all aside for now, and do not have to fake pride for their ward. "You did very well." They pop the box open and procure a knife. "So. Cake time."

Strawberry shortcake is one of the very few desserts that Saichi can stomach. As for Maru, he eats whatever's placed in front of him (though it's been a lot less instant ramen lately), but he seems to genuinely enjoy it, too. Still, he finishes only one slice before dropping his fork and staring directly at Saichi.

"I was thinking about what you said," he says.

They pause in the middle of their second slice. "What do you mean?"

"The other day. With the… gender stuff." Maru hesitates. "Could you please do that for me, also?"

"Of course. You mean using gender-neutral language, right?"

Maru's nod is jerky, almost ashamed. There is too much of Saichi's younger self in the gesture, and they only smile.

"You don't have to justify anything," they tell them. "I will care about you no matter what you identify as or who you love. You're always Maru-chan, or whatever you want to call yourself, and I am so proud of you."

When Maru does emote, it's in flashes - a release of everything they'd been feeling up to the moment, stretched so widely that it's almost a distortion of what they'd intended to feel. A smile flickers across their face now as they stare downwards.

"May I have more cake?" they ask, and Saichi cuts them another piece.

* * *

(But Saichi does not miss the way that their hands shake after their performances, how they flee before anyone can catch them for an interview. After the third show, they start wearing one of the cheap plastic masks for tourists that they keep in the lobby, and do not take it off until they are safely backstage.)

(Saichi does not miss this, but they say nothing.)

* * *

Maru recognizes their birthday as January 16. It's their real birthday, according to them, not the day that they were found at the end of the world, and they make sure to mark it if not necessarily celebrate. Saichi sees to that side of things, even if by necessity it’s always a small celebration.

Three days after they turn 15, though, Maru gently taps on Saichi's door and asks to leave for a few days. Needless to say, this catches them extremely off-guard, given that they'd had the next several days booked with setting up the newest production and all of its effects, and would be completely unable to accompany them wherever they'd like. Maru, however, insists that they intended on going alone regardless of what Saichi wanted in the first place. And that gives them pause.

Although it shouldn't be that bad. They'd been showing their ward (probably more than a ward at this point, really) how to use the subway system and how to manage themself in new places, and even a few pointers on who they can stay with if they really need to. And Maru wouldn’t lie to them about their intentions - they would just hide them. So they need to trust them, right? Any parent would have to let their child wander alone eventually.

Eventually, they nod, and press several handfuls of money into their hands, and tell them to please check in at least once a day. Maru nods, head held high, and leaves the room.

But there’s still a pervasive feeling of something so fundamentally wrong, as if Maru’s absence leaves more than a mere gap. Part of it is the fact that Saichi had been looking after them for almost three years, now, and it is odd to no longer have them in the building. They can almost convince themself that they are worried that Maru will be recognized, questions will be raised, and they will be forced to give up the currently nonexistent legal custody that they’re working on obtaining.

About eight hours into their absence, Saichi finally place the dread hanging above them as less worried about someone discovering Maru's existence. They're worried about Maru themself.

They do not stop worrying until they wake up at five in the morning, two days later, to find the light on in Maru's room. When they peek in, they find a figure merely sitting on their futon, staring at the mask in their shaking hands. It isn't their intent to intrude, but as soon as they draw near the doorway, the figure stands up.

All Saichi can do is stand, frozen, as Maru takes their hand. They fold Saichi's fingers closed around the leftover money, and bury their head into their side, and wrap arms tight around their waist and _sob._

There is nothing to say. Saichi simply rakes fingers through their hair and rocks them gently, and holds them, and silently wishes that everything could be easier for the child they have dedicated their life to.

Maru doesn't talk about it. They don't talk about anything, really, until about a week has passed. The first they speak after the incident is to request more schoolwork, and they throw themself into this with even more vigor than usual.

They do not perform for three months.

* * *

Saichi dresses for today's meeting as if gearing up for war. The darkest lipstick they own, the sunglasses that reflect no light, and a capelet, for good measure. All in shades of black, grey, charcoal.

They tell Maru not to leave their room. Their tone brooks no argument, though they don't usually protest whenever Saichi tells them to do something; still, they remain hidden safely backstage. Good. It's best that they don't see the visitor today.

The clack of their heels echoes, the door snaps shut with the cleanest of clicks. When they cross a leg over the other, they make sure their visitor can see their white shoes, a marked contrast to their dark ensemble. Four-inch stilettos complete the effect, their tips dipped in a dull red for emphasis.

Saichi smiles at Katsuyoshi Beniya with a mouth full of knives.

"I understand that you have been having issues securing performances as of late," they tell him, back perfectly straight.

Beniya smiles back, placating, humble as always. "Yes, exactly," he says, and their stomach twists from how simply he says it. "But it's been years since I've performed at Kabukiza, so it just struck me as odd that every production that's involved me as of late has been turned away from your theater. Might there, perhaps, be a grudge?"

Sharp eyes rove over Saichi's painted grin, searching for an opening. What they had previously mistaken for maturity now manifests as quiet cunning. It is taking every ounce of their control not to strangle him on the spot.

"Absolutely not," they say, smoothly. "You know me, Beniya-san. I hold everyone to equal standards. Any actor who deserves to perform on such a legendary stage should have that opportunity."

"Are you insinuating something about my talent?"

"I did not say anything about your talent."

He raises an eyebrow. "Then what, exactly, makes someone worthy of performing here?"

"People who work hard for it, of course." Saichi raises an eyebrow of their own. Not like Beniya would see behind the shades, anyway. "You know that I seek to uplift new actors."

"Right, like that new actor that started performing under your name, of all people." Beniya scowls. "His style is extremely similar to mine, though. I'm surprised that he didn't use my name as his mentor."

Saichi merely folds their hands and regards Beniya impassively. The man chuckles.

"Although maybe it's better that way. Between you and me, I wouldn't want just anyone to perform under my name. He'd have to be perfect."

"Of course. But the actor you are referring to is openly agender, and prefers to be referred to as such." Saichi smiles thinly. "Do you have a child, Beniya-san?"

This, finally, catches Beniya off-guard. His facade breaks for a moment, his eyes widen in shock, and he seems to recover in an instant. "I have a daughter. Two years old."

… Well. This is a revelation.

Assuming he isn't bluffing, this may possibly explain what it was that Maru was so worked up about when they got back - it's not as if they really had anywhere else to visit, all those weeks ago, they probably went back to Kyoto - and… No. Not the time. They can ask Maru about that later, if they feel up to talking about it.

Instead, Saichi tilts their head. "Only one?" they ask, keeping their voice light.

"No," Beniya says, and the answer is too immediate. "I have never had a son. Which is a shame, really," he adds, an afterthought.

If they were to hold their shoes in their hands, they could ram them into Beniya's shitty little throat and end this conversation once and for all. No, it'd be too hard to hide the body. And people know where he's supposed to be. What a waste of a perfectly good murder attempt.

They shrug, affecting nonchalance. "Perhaps it's better that way. A father so dismissive and focused on furthering his own legacy wouldn't provide a caring home environment, don't you think?"

He stares at them, and now there is uncertainty flickering in those dark red eyes that are so much colder than Maru's. "Do you know something?" Slowly, his eyes narrow; too quickly, they turn furious. "Wait. Is Akiichi-“

"I think we're done here," Saichi says blandly, and stands up. They gesture to the door, and when he doesn't stand, they page theater security.

"What do you mean, we're done here? I didn't do anything wrong," he gasps, again the shy and overwhelmed actor from nowhere, and their blood curdles. “I just wanted to make a civil request to perhaps perform here in the future-“

“I will not allow child abusers to perform at my theater.”

The blood drains from Beniya’s face.

“And I will be contacting several other theater managers on this matter. They'll spread the word. It’s as simple as that, Beniya-san.” Behind their sunglasses, they survey his face. There is shock, there is rage, there is…

… Fear.

The boots on the floor signal the security guards’ arrival. Time’s up.

Saichi smiles pleasantly.

“Please leave the premises before I fucking kill you.”

* * *

The papers strewn across the room are covered in dense scrawls of sentences and equations, kanji spiraling one after the other and written over and over until they look like computer print. A battered textbook here to study history, another outlining middle school chemistry. Maru takes a letter off of the mess and hands it to them now.

“I forgot to give this to you,” they say, and glance away. They’ve been toying at their scars lately, and Saichi hasn’t been able to bring themself to ask about Beniya or their sister. In fact, they're not sure if they ever will.

But they take the envelope, at least, and frown at the unfamiliar name. “What is this?”

“I, um.” Maru coughs. “Got accepted into Hasunokei International.”

Saichi lets the letter drift to the floor.

“No way,” they breathe, bringing a hand to their mouth. “Are you- Maru-chan, are you serious?”

As if that wasn’t enough, they continue to avert their gaze and say something under their breath.

“Maru-chan?”

“And I have a full ride,” they mumble louder.

Oh.

Oh, wow, that’s. That’s _incredible._

If Saichi smiles any wider, they might tear their eye open again. As it is, a great and blooming warmth fills their chest, and they beam down at their- their child. They've come a long way from the scared kid in an alleyway that Saichi found so many years ago, and they're- they're growing up. They're recovering. They’re living.

Yet somehow, despite the gravity of the moment, the congratulations and celebration that’s stuck in Saichi’s throat and written across their face, Maru seems too nervous.

“I’m proud of you,” they reassure them quickly. “I’m so, incredibly proud of you, and how far you’ve come in the past three years. You’ve done so, so well, and though I’ll always love you regardless of what you do, I’m so excited about what you’ve accomplished.”

“That’s not what I was… sorry.” They swallow, dropping their hand from their neck. “Did you- did you see the name on the envelope?”

“Yes?” They trace out the kanji again, and frown. One of them is from their own name, but they can’t be sure of how to pronounce the name as a whole. “Is this…?”

“The surname is Harai,” they say, skipping over it. “I just- I like writing the character, so I’m using it as my surname. But the given name is…”

They take the envelope back, point to the kanji in turn. The one Saichi recognizes and the one that’s unfamiliar, in turn. They swallow, and their voice is clear as they pronounce the name. “Tatsu-maru.”

A sharp intake of breath. Saichi pulls their hand back to their face, again, and this time-

They waver, for a moment, before Saichi can respond. “I- I took it from your family name, I’m sorry if that was inappropriate-“

“It’s perfect,” Saichi says, and the way their throat closes this time isn’t unpleasant. They take off their shades so their child can see the way they’re smiling through tears, and laugh. “It’s more than perfect.”

And this is what tips Tatsumaru over the edge to smiling.

Obviously, they get cake afterwards.

* * *

(There are good days, and many bad ones. Performances phase away, replaced by late-night studying and a singular outing with friends.)

(There is a graduation, of course, and Saichi couldn't be prouder of the child they can finally, finally call their own.)

(It makes it that much harder when they disappear.)

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder not to deadname or misgender Tatsumaru! Backstory Tatsumaru is agender even when they didn't figure it out yet! And if you ever refer to them with he/him I will get out a gun.


	5. failed to see the flaws in the details i adored

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I played God.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNING:** Ch2 spoilers  
>  **LABEL:** AU  
>  **SUMMARY:** If she had won.  
> Title taken from "Devil's In The Detail" by The Hoosiers.

There is one person rescued from the mountains.

A woman paces the halls of an empty mansion, turning paper after paper over to perhaps discern any trace of what had transpired here. The punctures in the wall and the speaker on a table strike her more than anything as odd, and she does not stay on the balcony long enough to catch the bitter undertones of charred flesh and ashes on the wind.

When she returns, she does not answer questions. She only smiles vaguely, empty teeth and empty gaze jumping from face to face, in an attempt to put the pieces together for herself. Yes, why  _ was _ she found alone in a mansion in the mountains? Why  _ was _ she the only survivor of her high school class?

These questions are posed as if she had the answers to them. She does not. All she knows is everything before her high school life, and no one can explain the three years of memory loss, nor her insistence that she’d attended Hope’s Peak Academy.

“Everyone knows that’s just from the TV show,” the pilot says, gesturing to a poster with a black-and-white bear. “Maybe what you’re remembering - and not remembering, of course - is a side effect of the trauma.”

“Perhaps so,” she agrees.

The first solitude she can find is in a hotel bathroom, with a change of clothes and a bag of single-use toiletries; presumably, she is meant to clean up after the ordeal. Strangely, she feels no compulsion to do so, despite this being the obvious next step to splicing her life back together.

Instead, she leans against the counter and stares at the reflection of her clasped hands. Her bracelets are still there, she notes, and the only noise in the room comes from the ticking of a watch on her wrist. One she doesn’t remember making, but she can still catch her initials on its face in the uneven light. How utterly fascinating, that the mundane can be so enveloping.

There aren’t many conclusions that she can draw about herself or her circumstances. She evidently was very fortunate to have survived whatever it was that she had been through. One does not disappear off the very planet, along with their entire high school class, to be the only one left alive.

So how is it possible? Why is she here? What did she do in order to secure her survival, and, apparently, no one else’s?

For the first time in a while, she looks into her own face (confused, guarded, empty), and all that stares back at her are green eyes.

They speak of sadness.

Grace.

Guilt?

These aren’t her eyes. These can’t be her eyes. Where did she see-

Hope flickering against soporific darkness. Betrayal.

Fury, in eyes that are almost her own, reflecting the promises and dreams she had methodically shattered for years. The ones that fall apart now, as grief settled in, though it’s too late; all that’s left is his betrayal.

And blood. So  _ much _ of it, that she may as well have been an island in an ocean. A punishment enacted as her reward, the promise of her survival with the sacrifice of so many others - long live the king, they said, mockingly, as the rust seeped onto her clothing and onto the floor, staining her with-

Betrayal.

All that’s before her is the monster she’s made of herself. She steps back, still staring into the mirror. Transfixed, or perhaps horrified.

Tiana grips her head in her hands and screams.


	6. i don't believe in that kind of god, but still i pray for you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone's terrorized my psyche to get even...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNING:** Ch3 spoilers  
>  **LABEL:** Experimental  
>  **SUMMARY:** Prompt fill from Discord - "You really need to go."  
> Title taken from "We Will Commit Wolf Murder" by Of Montreal.

The sheets are worn, their limbs too heavy. When they fall onto the bedding, Tsukino, bless her, unconsciously latches onto them; her gentle snoring is yet not loud enough to drown out the heartbeat jabbing into their ears. They close their eyes, breathe in and out, and the adrenaline still pulses so painfully hard until Kumoshita, hours later, shifts and stirs.

It is very, very hard to go back to sleep. It is even harder, then, to wake. But wake they do.

And so does everyone else around them, when the expected announcement goes off, and as their classmates’ own fight-or-flight responses kick in around them Aster presses a hand to their jacket to make sure the envelope is tucked safely inside and they breathe out, shakily.

There is nothing for any of them to investigate, and nothing to Aster to hide either way. There’s nothing they can really do to help except, maybe, turn back the time, and patch Khalaf’s skull whole again. Or, while we’re at it, maybe rewind to the beginning of the killing game, or to such a point that it never happened and never will.

Tsukino’s hand is warm, grounding, stable, and there are only so few hours left with her, and it’s-

Oh, god. They’re going to die.

There’s a half-excuse they don’t register making. When their awareness surfaces again they pace the bedroom hallway, not nearly somewhere (anywhere) far enough away that they won’t have to- won’t have to look at all of these people around them mourning, mourning for a life that they took, and- and-

The voice is a knife through their thoughts, so raw and bloody and violent that it cannot be anything other than shouting until they turn and, apparently, McRae is standing in front of them with his gaze turned to the hallway floor.

“I didn’t realize you were so close with either of them,” he mumbles, and rests a hand on his headset. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

His voice is quiet. Of course it’s quiet. Of course he’s being understanding, and they don’t believe it, of course.

What is there to say to that? What are they allowed to say, really? It’s not like they can really accept the condolences, considering that they were directly responsible for one death and witnessed what was probably another. Any attempt at verbalizing any of this needs to be consciously crushed; fortunately it was probably never going to be possible anyway. God. Fuck.

“I,” they say, and hide their expression with a nod. “I appreciate that. Thank you.”

McRae’s expression, or what they can see of it, doesn’t change. He shuffles his feet, and it’s sort of- why is he here? Is there something he wanted to say specifically, or did he just want to be supportive?

... Actually, that’s insensitive. Considering that, before this point, he’d been the most affected by the cases, he’d probably come to check on them specifically when they broke off. Too nice of him, even if he’s not talking now. He winds the end of his headset through his fingers and presses his lips together.

“You know,” he says, and pauses. Aster motions for him to continue, but he shakes his head. “It’s a little bit morbid, and I get that you don’t want to talk about the case-“

“No,” Aster says, and forces themself to smile. “I want to hear. What’s up?”

He still seems uneasy, but he nods. “I don’t,” he starts, and ties the cord in a knot. “I don’t know if we have enough evidence to convict a killer.”

Oh, no.

It’s more than likely that this statement just came up on a train of thought, as these things so often do, but... But. It’s almost uncannily topical. When they look at him, though, he does not seem accusatory, merely declarative; he watches their painted smile with flat eyes that may still see through it. So they play it off.

“All we can do is trust Kumoshita-san, Kashizaki-san, and Harai-san to find enough information. But maybe our best hope is hoping the killer has a conscience.” They shrug and half-laugh, though it comes out strangled. “Uh. Two people just died, after all, it seems that confessing is the least they can do.”

For emphasis, they wave a fluttering hand. Something facetious, something airy and completely unworried. McRae’s eyes draw to the gesture and, suddenly, widen.

Somewhat belatedly, Aster hides their nails.

Trying to scrub the red from their hands was almost impossible; a trace of iron still lingers when they bring their hand too close to their face, and a fresh wave of nausea takes hold when they do. Maybe he can smell it, too, from where he stands. Maybe, at least, he can understand that this isn’t what they wanted, isn’t what they meant-

Slowly, he takes a step back. Then another.

“You,” he whispers, barely, and his voice fractures.

What does he see in them? A monster? A coward? A person with blood on their hands, responsible for a mere life? It would be so freeing, so damning, to know. To hear all the names they’d call him. To know, for once, who they really are.

But it would be too difficult to find out, not when their fate lies sealed. Not when each word is so waterlogged. Not when they’ve already drowned.

They do not apologize, only stare at him, and the words that fall from their mouth are leaden.

“You really need to go.”


	7. i shall find a crystal of peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **WARNING:** Ch5 spoilers  
>  **LABEL:** Experimental  
>  **SUMMARY:** Postmortem.  
> Title taken from "Rest" by Frank Ticheli, specifically [this string orchestra version.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4QJGrRKz3bg&app=desktop) Which is in itself taken from the poem of the same name by Sarah Teasdale.

They don’t know how they got there, amongst the library aisles. Or rather, sitting across from each other, just as they had a month before, close enough to feel each other’s breath. Once upon a time.

This time, neither breathes, neither touches, neither meets the other’s eyes. It’s a mockery of intimacy, close in all the wrong ways, and altogether far too quiet.

It stretches forever. It lasts an instant.

Finally, Amal speaks. “Why are we here?” they ask.

Chiyo only shrugs, brushing a hand through hair that no longer carries weight. It runs loose down her back, freed from its messy updo; neither of them wear the hat, and it’s probably better that way. Again, silence.

It’s okay, though. They’ve got all the time in the world to explain, now that they’ve both left it.

Yet still too soon, the unanswered questions and unfinished stories weigh heavy.

“Let me try again. Why are we here?”

“Good question,” Chiyo says, just barely audible. She presses her lips together, still doesn’t look at them. “There’s a lot of reasons why ghosts could stay in the mortal world. Mostly pertaining to unfinished business. You can’t pass on if there’s something you need to resolve. If- if anything, I‘m sure this whole killing game counts.”

“That’s not what I mean.” She flinches at how sharp their voice is, all pointed edges and shattered glass, and they make no attempt to correct themselves or disguise the horror in their voice. “You’re  _ dead,  _ Chiyo.”

Thankfully, she doesn’t answer with the obvious.  _ So are you. _ Amal supposes she’s had plenty of time to grapple with that one, anyway.

Instead, she bows her head and says nothing, leaving them to break their own silence, and that might be even worse.

“You’re too- you’re too good to be dead.” They run a hand through their hair, consciously avoiding a wide swath on their left. It’s another one of those indeterminate loaded pauses before Chiyo sighs.

“Are you proud of what I did, at least?”

“Are you fucking kidding me? Of  _ course  _ I’m not proud of you. You as good as-“

A searing pain splits Amal’s head, and they squeeze their eyes tight against the shattering rush of death. Maybe, if they both had been alive, Amal would feel a hand brush against theirs. Maybe they’d be able to cry. Maybe they wouldn’t be having this conversation at all - no, that would have been a guarantee.

They wait. There is no breath they can take to steady themselves, so all they can do is wait for the pain to subside. All Chiyo can possibly do is watch, but when they open their eyes, she still isn’t looking at them. In another life, they would probably have confronted her about it, but maybe they both understand now that this is about something deeper than a couple of dead teenagers.

“You as good as threw your life away,” they continue softly. “I- I wanted you to live, Chiyo, you deserved to- fuck, you of all people deserved to be alive, so why did you have to die?”

No answer. They’re not sure if they’ll ever get one, at this rate.

But the gears are still turning in her head and theirs, and it’s a shorter pause before she speaks again. Though quiet, her words are careful, forceful, chosen with so much precision that, as something approaching a journalist, Amal is almost proud.

“I think,” she murmurs, “you misheard what I said. I said are you proud of what I did. Not of me as a person. Amal,” she says, eyes flashing as she finally looks at them (stormy, unreadable, so much older than she was when they saw her before), “I didn’t want to die.”

“Then why did you choose to?” They hope they don’t sound as hurt as they feel.

“It wasn’t a choice,” she says. “Tristan and I saw an opening, so we took it. It wasn’t worth it to sit around in the killing game and waiting for either us or Prospero to blink first. It’s not and never was a choice.”

(Her voice is distant, resigned, so tired. So much like Amal’s own, and they hate it.)

“I didn’t want to die so much as I wanted everyone else to live,” she tells them, and knowing her, she probably assumes that’s the end of the discussion.

Realistically, it should be, because she’s right. It was selfless. It was stupid, and so, so necessary to end the killing game like that. If only it had been anyone else in her place.

But she wouldn’t have forgiven herself, if that were the case. And Amal knows, in her place, they would have done the same - but it’s not right. It’s not right that someone so wonderful and good for the world as the love of their life should throw it all away because someone wanted to play with lives.

“That doesn’t mean you should have,” they say, and it sounds so pathetic. “There could have been another way.”

“Well, this way, they’ll be safe. Sort of. If Ariel keeps his word, though he probably won’t.” Chiyo hums. “It’s a risk we’ll have to take. And it’s better than continuing to sit around and wait for someone to save us.”

“But it wasn’t worth it,” Amal tries again, and their every protest is feeble, wavering.

“Their lives were worth it,” Chiyo counters, not unkindly, “and I wanted them to get out alive.”

“That’s what I wanted for you, too.” Amal sighs, their head starting to ache again. They do their best to keep their expression neutral, though it’s less from the pain of death. Because even through the fog of it all, it’s starting to make sense. Or rather, it always made sense, they just didn’t (and still don’t) want to admit it. Their classmates should survive, so she made sure as best as she could that they will, and the worst part is that Amal can’t even fault her for it.

The pieces fall together. The pain fades, somewhat, and they’re left looking at her eyes. Where she saw the sun looking at theirs, they see only dark pools. On the best of days, there’s something glimmering within them, something bright and laughing full of life. It only makes sense, then, that now all they catch is darkness.

“And I’m sorry it couldn’t have been,” they say, simply. “But I understand.”

Slowly, Chiyo lets out a (still nonexistent) breath, and they lapse again into silence. Though their forgiveness should have been a freedom, now it seems only a burden upon the two of them. Only this time, the quiet isn’t nearly as oppressive, a burden of a different kind lifted. Then, they were two adversaries struggling to come to terms. Now, they’re just two lost souls in one place.

“I thought,” Chiyo starts suddenly, and then stops. “I thought this reunion would be better.” She snorts. “A happy ending.”

All Amal can manage is a weak smile, and, to their surprise, Chiyo adopts the same. “Considering we’d both have to die in order to have a reunion at all, I’d say there’s a limit to our happiness, there.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers, I guess.”

It’s almost normal, being able to joke around like this. It’s not the same as before. It will never be the same. But just that reminder is enough to reignite the last embers of something that someone might call hope, and though they know they don’t really feel it, they imagine something warm blooming in their chest.

“I love you,” Amal says suddenly, without really thinking about it.

Chiyo’s eyes widen, and she opens her mouth (to respond in kind? To demur, to rebuff?) and, just as suddenly, her expression twists into a grimace. On reflex, they reach out to her as her hands spring to her heart -

(and they’ll pass through. They have to pass through, because nothing ever turns out right for one Amal Khalaf, and the world is and has always been too cruel and that’s why Chiyo is even dead)

\- and, to their utter surprise, pull her into their arms.

She shakes with each nonexistent sob as the sword runs through her again, and all they can do is hold her and press into her ears whispers of  _ I’m here, I’m here, I’m here. _ If only they could do more. If only this were ever enough.

Eventually, after what could be an hour or mere seconds, assuming it matters at all, she slumps against their chest and makes no effort to move. “Does that happen a lot,” she says rather than asks, altogether too vulnerable.

They tuck the hair behind her ears. “Yes,” they admit, and it pains them to see how her expression draws taut. “Every now and then. You get used to it.”

“Fuck,” she mutters, and Amal almost laughs at the dissonance of hearing her swear after everything. “I didn’t think the afterlife would hurt. That ruins the point.” Amal smirks too wide until Chiyo smiles too, and then leans down to kiss her forehead.

She barely reacts even as they pull away, her slight smile much too quiet. Which is, of course, understandable, but it still breaks their heart to see the light fail to reach her eyes.

These past two months had forced them all to age much too quickly. Look at them now, forever stuck at eighteen. They have the rest of eternity to be with each other, but it’s hard to enjoy it, knowing how much should (could) (would) have happened if only they’d had more time.

“So what now?” Chiyo asks. “What can we do?”

“Wait,” Amal suggests. “It’s really all we can do by this point.”

And it’s all that’s left to do, anyway. Wait for the trial upstairs to run its course, for the accused to die, and for their friends to be freed. At the cost of her life, or maybe both of theirs. It doesn’t really matter anymore, and it might not have ever mattered. Even if they’re both here now.

“I love you too,” she says, and blushes. “Sorry. That was late.”

They’d have waited centuries for her, no matter how long it took for them to be together. The mere month’s wait is tragic in itself, of course, but means that there is plenty of time to make up for it. Amal offers a hand to her, hoping it’s answer enough in itself.

And it must be, for she takes it in hers. “Promise you won’t leave me?”

They try to swallow the lump in their throat with their fears as they link pinky fingers. “I promise.”

And at least, for now, they can pretend things will be okay.


	8. it's goodbye to this town.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> darling, darling, please love me~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNING:** FULLGAME SPOILERS!!  
>  **LABEL:** Canon  
>  **SUMMARY:** Prompt fill from Discord - "Forget it. You fucking suck."  
> Title taken from "Bokuramadaunderground" by Eve.

The fire etches scarlet gashes into the winter night, offset by the puffs of vapor on his breath made barely visible in the glow. When he was a kid playing in the snow, he’d pretend he was a dragon or something equally childish, equally silly. How naive. How meaningless.

The boy doesn’t turn as Claude approaches, hands in his pockets, and only stares into the flames like it’s some sort of holy desecration and not, y’know, a dumpster on fire. Maybe it’s the same for some people, he notes, watching the works of Rachmaninoff, Chopin, Beethoven go up in smoke. Not like he’d know anything about holiness. Or care.

“Having fun?” he asks, and Sekisada flinches.

Shoulders raise, turn inward, and shrink together. It’s only with dull interest, little interest, that Claude even bothers to register this; it’s more just a waiting pass period for Sekisada to respond. When he does, his reply is clipped. “Go away.”

“Hey, you’re the one who lives off campus. And it’s, like, ten PM. Shouldn’t YOU be the one to go away?”

“Student apartments are also off campus,” Sekisada says, still without looking at him. “You don’t have an excuse to be here, either. Aren’t you going to get caught?”

“Why would I be worried about getting caught? You’re the one who started a fuckin’ trash fire out of your own practice books.”

He doesn’t respond to that. Maybe that implies that Claude won the argument, but that assumes they were even having one. The fire crackles and furls before them, little tongues of smoke and light; wordlessly, Sekisada tosses another practice book onto the pyre, sending up another shower of sparks as the paper starts to burn.

This probably has some sort of poeticism to it, and yeah, Claude does sort of see why. It’s something about the exquisite beauty of destruction, the thrill of rending something into meaninglessness. Having the capability to ruin something for the sake of doing so. It’s a rush.

If he were to ask Sekisada, though, he’d probably just get something tragic and self-pitying and horribly, horribly pathetic. About purpose and meaning - god, can’t he just lie down and accept his irrelevance like the rest of them? Not even being Juliette Bates’s child seemed to help Claude any, so the idea of this kid being some big-name just because of HIS relatives is laughable at best.

So he slouches back, leans against the wall, and raises an eyebrow. “You do know that this is just paper, right. Easily replaced. There’s literally no point in burning it.”

“Don’t care,” Sekisada says. He still won’t look at him. How noble. “It’s not about that, anyway.”

“Then what is it about? Sticking it to the school staff? You’re only making some poor janitor’s life even harder, you know. You should feel bad.”

“You don’t get it, do you?”

The light doesn’t reflect off Sekisada, only outlines his silhouette, burning bright. He takes in a shaky breath, and his exhale glows amber.

“You- you realize that- I don’t have much of a future, you know.”

“Mhm. Planning a killing game doesn’t really leave much room for one.”

“Fuck off.” It comes as a hiss, and though Sekisada can’t see it, Claude grins. Man, it’s actually kinda fun getting people to listen to what he says. “I still don’t- you don’t realize how much planning it takes, do you? This is never going to work.”

“Keep telling yourself that. You’re the one who’s putting so much effort into keeping it organized. Nice move with the food, by the way, getting it all shipped there under guise of a cast reunion...”

Another deep breath from Sekisada; Claude can see the way his posture stiffens with it. “Okay. Fine. Whatever. It’s not going to- that doesn’t mean anything. I just want- I swear I just want to drag Enji’s name through the mud. That’s it. That’s all that this planning is ever gonna do. And your killing game is never going to happen the way you think it will, Bates.”

“Know what I think?” Claude says, instead of rising to the veiled challenge. The flames dance higher and higher, tearing at the edges of the darkness. “I think you’re just grasping for straws, trying to argue that you still have a moral code. I think you like saying you’re worse than everyone else because you think it means that your actions are more excusable than other people’s.”

“Shut up.”

“I think you set your music on fire not because you gave up on everything you care about, but because you wanted to see it burn.”

Sekisada doesn’t reply to that, but his hands curl into fists at his sides. Claude narrows his eyes and tilts his head and, despite everything, feels the ghost of a smirk rise to his face.

“I think you’re actually kinda hopeless, Sekisada.”

“You know what?” Sekisada snaps, and Claude allows himself the full grin. “Forget it. You fucking suck. Can you just leave me alone?”

“Of course.” Obviously, Sekisada can’t exactly see unless he stops being a brooding moron and actually turns around, but Claude raises his hands in mock surrender. “I would never want to interrupt you from your very important and overdramatic attempt to make something meaningful out of your life.”

“I said  _ leave me alone, _ Bates.”

“Ah, you’re no fun, are you. Just remember that you’re part of this, too.”

“I’m not,” Sekisada mumbles, and Claude’s lip curls.

He says nothing, though. Actions speak much louder than words, and Sekisada’s slipped memory lights into Claude’s bag. Can’t quite say that he’s completely innocent, considering he’d literally spent several million yen on buying a mansion. On refurbishing robots. On planning a murder game.

By the time Sekisada seems to realize his error, Claude’s turned his grin into a banal smile that the boy still won’t turn to see. Maybe he finally sees how sad his life truly is. Maybe he finally sees all he’s come to and how much he’ll never be.

Well, the rest of society seems to have that figured out for themselves already, so really? About fucking time.

“Enjoy your night,” Claude says, and is surprised by how much he means it. The only motion from the dumpster comes when Sekisada throws another score onto the mess and watches it go up in flames.


	9. when violet eyes get brighter, and heavy wings grow lighter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> as many times as i blink, i'll think of you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNING:** None  
>  **LABEL:** AU  
>  **SUMMARY:** Stargazing.  
> Title taken from "Vanilla Twilight" by Owl City.

“I’m starting to think there isn’t going to be anything.”

Chiyo doesn’t take her eyes off of Amal as they stare into the sky, their chin settled on their knees. Something about their posture is almost modelesque, though the sheer amount of dirt on their clothes from where they tripped and fell earlier somewhat detracts from that. Still! It’s cute, is what she means. Watching them is cute.

And way too engrossing for her own good, so when they look at her and raise their eyebrows for her opinion, she has to tear her gaze away to look at the sky herself. On the best nights, something like five thousand stars are supposed to be visible with the naked eye, and staring at these swaths of pinprick light, she can believe it. The view is impressive in and of itself - maybe more so, considering that no one else is here save their group - but Amal’s right. No meteors yet.

“It’s not even one yet,” Chiyo points out, taking out her phone to check the time again. “I’m sure we’ll see SOMETHING by the end of tonight.”

“Joke’s on you!” Chisaki warbles from her own blanket, where she’s currently tucked into Everett’s side. “If you’re gay enough you don’t NEED stars! I’ve got mine right here!” She pats Everett’s shoulder for emphasis, and they roll their eyes.

“Yes, I’m aware, my name has something to do with star-adjacent words, you got me,” they tell Chisaki, and pull her onto their lap. Ignoring her squawk of protest, they settle arms around her to keep her in place. “You’re very clever, dear.”

“Peak viewing time is after 1 a.m., but that doesn’t mean that meteors only start showing up after then,” Amal notes, and Chiyo hums. “We should have seen something by now, right?”

“Maybe we just can’t see anything yet. The moon’s pretty bright.” Everett shrugs, teasing out some of Chisaki’s hair to play with. “Cue Tsuki joke.”

“I make ONE comment about being named after Sailor Moon and you never let me live it down.”

“I know you were planning to say something about how of course you’re aware that you’re bright, dear.”

“Maybe so. Don’t bully me.”

“You’re a pretty astronomical couple, huh?” Chiyo teases, and while Everett grins, Chisaki’s pout only deepens. Speaking of hair. The dim light catches in Amal’s, now-tangled, and Chiyo starts habitually braiding it back.

As she does, they lean back against her with a sigh, stretching out their legs and staring at the grass. “This is nice, though,” they say. “Although we really should have brought snacks.”

“If we call up Sekisada-san, I’m sure he brought some,” Chiyo suggests. “Although I’m not sure if he’s asleep or not, and if he is, I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t appreciate being woken up.”

“Honestly, I’d be surprised if he’s able to sleep at all.” Their braid finished, Amal pulls their hair back and leans over to work through Chiyo’s; their hands gently comb through each knot in repetitive motions, and even though this isn’t the first time this has happened and it is certainly far from the last, frankly she could die at this moment and be happy with everything she’d done in life. “The ground is super hard, you know. It took forever to fall asleep last night.”

“It’s part of camping,” Everett says evenly. “You get used to it. It’s fun.”

“Tell that to my back tomorrow morning.”

“And it’s easier to fall asleep if you hold your wife!” Chisaki chirps. Somehow, Chiyo’s cheeks STILL flare up hot after years of teasing. The one consolation is that she knows Amal’s do, too.

“Don’t make fun of them,” Everett chides, and Chisaki waves her arms around in such a way that Everett has to readjust theirs.

“I speak the truth! I speak from experience!”

“It does help me sleep when you hold me,” Chiyo says to Amal as matter-of-factly as she possibly can without dying of embarrassment, and in the background, Chisaki is most certainly cackling. Behind her, Amal’s hands freeze for a second before there’s a quiet huff.

Their weight settles against her back as they lean against her and place arms around her shoulders, and wow she sure is sort of regretting that attempt of flirting because now she might spontaneously combust. Carefully, they lower their head to settle into the crook of her neck, and the likelihood of combustion suddenly increases tenfold.

“That makes one of us,” they mumble, and she can feel the buzz of their voice as they speak. “But if we don’t see something soon, I might fall asleep.”

Chiyo pats their cheek. “You can go back to the tent if you’re tired.”

“Why would I want to do that when you’re here?”

“That’s gay,” Chisaki calls over.

“You’re gay.”

“Well, yeah, I sorta have to be because Aster Everett exists! Their existence means that legally, I had to be gay,” Chisaki states, completely serious. “It’s the obligation.”

“Well, I appreciate it,” Everett says, shifting where they sit. As Chisaki attempts to escape, they only draw their arms tighter around her. “And all the wonderful opportunities that opened up. Such as my also being gay.”

“Asterrr it’s hot please let me gooo.”

“As long as you’re near me, that will still be a problem.”

Chisaki wriggles around in Everett’s arms to stare at them belligerently. Completely nonplussed, Everett drops a kiss on her forehead, and though she complains, Chisaki stops moving. Chiyo giggles, and so does Amal - there’s a gentle rumble against her shoulder accompanying their usual quiet laugh - and the four of them lapse into silence.

There’s a lot that can be said here. About how the cosmos truly make one consider their tiny place in the enormous universe, how rare and beautiful it is to exist. About how the infinity before them seems a lot like everything that lies in their futures - all of the possibilities about the things they’ll do, the people they’ll become, the lives they still have left to lead. About the turn of a new day and the new adventures waiting for them, most likely beginning with whatever Atsui attempts to cook over a camp stove and how Ekyou ends up “improving” it. So many deep, absorbing things to ponder upon.

But the reverie is broken with Everett’s soft gasp, and though they move an arm to point upwards, Chisaki makes no move to escape. “Look,” they say, breathless. “There’s one.”

“I already missed it,” Chisaki says, craning her neck. “Aw, but Dez-kun’s missing out, he went to bed early- ah! Look!!”

“You’re distracting me,” Amal complains, lifting their head from Chiyo’s shoulder to look up again. “Oh, that’s...”

As Chiyo scoots backwards to lean into Amal’s side, they keep their head tilted upward, eyes wide and luminous as the stars skip across the sky. It’s a mundane miracle - meteor showers happen so many times a year, after all. Even still, she can’t help the sharp inhale when she catches the first streak of her own.

Without either of them looking, their hand finds its way into hers. “Make a wish,” Amal whispers.

And she does. But with the hand warm in hers, the quiet chatter from Chisaki and Everett, and the light dancing in Amal’s eyes, laced with wonder - Chiyo’s sure she has everything she’d want already.


	10. lay me down in ash again and watch the world crumble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My love, my love...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNING:** FULLGAME SPOILERS  
>  **LABEL:** Canon (pregame)  
>  **SUMMARY:** The only one who's ever mattered. Title taken from "When I Watch The World Burn, All I Think About Is You" by Bastille (the demo song, not Doom Days).

When he steps through the doors, the air is heavy. That could mean many things. Possibly, Tyotya could be shut up in Ayaka’s room again, staring at picture frames and the dust settling in their cracks. Possibly, she’s in a mood, and if he goes upstairs he’ll find her surrounded in torn canvases she couldn’t figure out how to make palatable.

Usually and more often, it just means rain. Judging by the slivers of sky visible through the curtains, that seems more likely. Unfortunate.

Not to say that he prefers Tyotya’s worst days, or anything like that. Just that it’s nice to go outside and enjoy good weather. And though he’s walked through a number of drizzles, the incoming clouds read more like a rainstorm. Again, unfortunate, especially now that he has no excuse not to do schoolwork. He pulls up a chair to the kitchen table, unpacks his bag, and begins to write.

The afternoon wears on as the pencil scratches paper, neatly carrying out equations and essays in practiced lines. In the background, Tyotya makes tea, and she wordlessly places a cup of it in front of him before taking her own back to her room.

It takes another few hours for the rain to properly start falling in force, which is also annoying - couldn’t he have been outside this whole time? Well. At least his work is done, now, though what he’s going to do now with all this free time is beyond him. Considering the rain. Bothering the geckos isn’t all that appealing right now, nor are video games of any sort, and going outside seems out of the question.

The best he can come up with is to reheat the tea in the microwave, then take a seat by the window - the big one that faces the street, by the front door - and drink it while looking outside like some sort of dramatic romance movie protagonist. This resemblance is only heightened when he immediately notices someone standing on the covered doorstep outside. Even more so when he realizes he recognizes him.

Hesitant, as if not to scare off a particularly oblivious bird, or in this case a person, he creeps to the door and unlocks it. The boy only stares out into the downpour, and doesn’t even turn around until the door creaks on its hinges and he immediately spins.

As unthreateningly as possible, Alexei raises a hand. “Hello,” he says, and Sekisada blinks at him.

“What,” Sekisada says, sounding more exhausted than anything, “are you doing here.”

Alexei stares. “This is my house.” And, shortly: “What are  _ you _ doing here?”

“Taking shelter,” Sekisada says, as if it’s obvious, and shifts the schoolbag on his shoulder. “Sorry for intruding. I’ll leave as soon as the rain stops. It shouldn’t be long.”

The conversation could end here, of course. There is nothing stopping him from telling Sekisada that it’s fine, from closing the door and letting him stand alone on the porch. Instead, Alexei takes his tea with him as he steps outside.

It truly is a downpour. Though it’s a warmer day, there’s still a bitter chill on the winter air; Sekisada cannot possibly be comfortable as drenched as he is. Alexei holds out the cup of tea, and though Sekisada opens his mouth and draws in a sharp breath, he eventually takes it. His hands are freezing, and he mutters a quiet thanks.

Curls of steam float in the corner of his eye as Sekisada takes hesitant sips of tea, and both of them watch the rain. It’s a lot easier than watching each other.

“I won’t tell anyone about this,” Alexei promises after some time. “I assume you’re still maintaining your image as a standoffish prick who refuses to talk to people.”

“You assume correctly.” Sekisada’s laugh is anything but genuine. “Thank you, though.”

“Mm.” He lets the silence stretch out a bit, makes it seem like he’s genuinely pondering the response, before asking the follow up question. “But why don’t you?”

The question catches Sekisada with the mug to his mouth, and his posture is stiff when he replies. “Why don’t I what?”

“Talk to people anymore.” Alexei leans against the door. “You know, no one really cares that your brother is-“

“They do,” Sekisada says, much too quickly. “They do. Care. And it’s part of it. I’m supposed to-“

He frowns, cuts himself off, rephrases. This does not strike Alexei as odd. This strikes him only as reconsideration, a normal part of conversation.

“I’m supposed to be involved with some Danganronpa-adjacent things,” he says, voice shaking just a little more. “After we graduate.“

This does not seem strange, either, neither the declaration nor the use of “we” in reference to graduation; it makes sense that he’d be immediately shunted into a more important Team Danganronpa position upon graduation. And, anyway, does it really matter if he makes the distinction between his own graduation and everyone else’s?

Still, his eyes are stormy in the dimming light, so there’s something of an obligation to respond. “Ah. I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing you can do,” Sekisada says, and he seems disappointed. He doesn’t bother elaborating on either his statement or the disappointment, and only grips the cup more tightly. “You don’t- you shouldn’t be involved in any of this. If anything, I’m sorry for making you listen to me.”

In lieu of answering, Alexei holds a hand out for the empty mug, and opens the door to place it back inside and grab some other things. When he returns to the doorstep, Sekisada’s looking back out to the street again, looking exactly the same as earlier if very slightly drier. This time, he doesn’t turn when Alexei steps outside, though he does stiffen when he drapes a towel around his shoulders.

“Why are you here, anyway?” Alexei asks instead of acknowledging the movement. “You don’t usually come down this way, do you?”

“I’m not stalking you, if that’s what you mean,” he shoots back, and falters. He draws the towel tighter around his shoulders. “No. I don’t usually come this way.”

“Then why did you?” He isn’t really expecting an answer, considering that, again, Sekisada has been making an active point to speak to absolutely no one.

Yet he seems to consider this all the same, looking up at the dark clouds overhead. “I didn’t want to go home,” he says. His voice is much too quiet, and he coughs out another bitter laugh as if to hide the vulnerability. “I just wanted to get lost, I guess. Something like that.”

Fair enough. Having Enji Sekisada of all people for an older brother must be exhausting. Being expected to carry on a legacy of death and, so to speak, despair, must be even more so. The walls are closing in, after all. They’ve only a month to graduation. Then college, another graduation, and...

And then what? The rest of their lives? What does that even mean? The future seems out to get them all, and it stretches forward and forever to the point where taking the first step seems impossible.

So, yes. All things considered, it makes perfect sense that Sekisada would be here today, and stopped at his house when the rain started falling. Looking at him now, all soaked and shivering and awfully pathetic wrapped in a Kuromi towel, really only proves the point.

But he wonders. About the bags under Sekisada’s eyes, the way in which his gaze wavers when Alexei attempts to hold it. About how, in the dead of December, he’d set his piano books on fire and walked away. He wonders, and he wonders if there is something more to this, and perhaps this is what prompts his final question.

“Are you,” Alexei says, and pauses. “Are you okay?”

As expected, Sekisada does not respond, but the sudden droop in his frame speaks volumes. Alexei steps forward, slowly, and Sekisada’s eyes trace his arms as he opens them.

“Hey,” he says, as gently as possible. “If you need anything at all, I’m here-“

Before he can finish the statement, Sekisada takes a step forward of his own. Then another, and a third, wobbling on unsteady feet. He stands so close that Alexei can nearly taste the tea on his breath as he lets it out in a long, shaking exhale.

And all he can do is stand, frozen, as Sekisada buries his face in his shoulder, and curls inwards upon himself, and begins to cry.

Hesitant, he wraps one arm and then the other around Sekisada’s shoulders, and it’s almost scary how quickly the other boy melts into the contact. Like he hasn’t been hugged in an extremely long time. And he also cries more, which is really more concerning than anything.

What else can he do, really? What else can he do other than draw him close, and run a hand through his hair, as every shuddering inhale and release leaves him shaking in his arms? What else is he supposed to do as Sekisada nestles his head into his neck, slumped entirely against him, tears falling heavier than the rain above?

It’s hard to make out what he’s saying through his sobbing, but when Alexei listens, it’s a stream of apologies. “I’m sorry,” Sekisada says, each word a desperate gasp. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I can’t-“

“It’s okay.” Alexei rubs circles into his shoulders, and he chokes on another breath. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“You don’t- you don’t know that. You don’t know  _ me. _ I shouldn’t- I shouldn’t be doing- I’m sorry.”

(Even as he says the words, he wraps his arms around Alexei’s chest, a drowning man clinging to another in vain hopes that the tide will not take them both.)

Eventually, he stops crying. Eventually, he’s worn himself out, and if he were to raise his head Alexei is sure that his eyes now hold only exhaustion. He doesn’t, though; he remains limp in his arms. Which isn’t all that unpleasant, either. They probably shouldn’t stand here forever, but the idea of moving is abhorrent for reasons he can’t quite explain.

Finally, Alexei shifts slightly, just to make sure Sekisada can hear him. “Is there anything I can do?”

His grip tightens. “Can I stay? For a while?”

“Of course.” He steps back, but only enough to open the door and guide Sekisada indoors. “As long as you need.”

A wan smile, and though Sekisada says nothing of the sort, Alexei gets the impression that he would love to, if only he could.

(Elsewhere, there is a balcony and a breeze, and solitude for the first time in many days. The sliding door opens, and Sekisada hesitates when he steps out of the drawing room to look out at the courtyard before them both, and moves to leave. Alexei reaches a gloved hand for his shoulder, seized by some unknown impulse, before he can.)

(“Please stay,” he says, and he does.)


	11. heroism.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With regards to Prospero.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNING:** FULLGAME SPOILERS!!  
>  **LABEL:** EXPERIMENTAL  
>  **SUMMARY:** I totally forgot I had this poem lying around. May as well publish it!

The happy end.  
This is nowhere close to  
The sting of defeat;  
All they know is  
Glorious,  
Because he has won,  
And he knows this:  
His smile is wry,  
Gleaming,  
The fangs yet  
Dulled.  
Justice is  
In his victory  
While his enemies wilt;  
Flowers blooming  
In the grass.  
A snake  
Symbolizes  
Charm, luxury, indulgence -  
Everything he is -  
No longer a memory.  
Devastation,  
Banished forever.  
The better option  
Between hope and despair,  
At the end of the world,  
He is alive.

...

He is alive.  
At the end of the world,  
Between hope and despair,  
The better option  
Banished forever.  
Devastation,  
No longer a memory.  
Everything he is -  
Charm, luxury, indulgence -  
Symbolizes  
A snake  
In the grass.  
Flowers blooming  
While his enemies wilt;  
In his victory  
Justice is  
Dulled.  
The fangs yet  
Gleaming,  
His smile is wry,  
And he knows this:  
Because he has won,  
Glorious,  
All they know is  
The sting of defeat;  
This is nowhere close to  
The happy end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem that Chiyo writes Claude in 2-X is also a flipped poem, although I did it wrong - it's supposed to be that read one way it has one meaning, and read the other way it means the opposite. I hope the opposite-meanings thing makes a little more sense for this poem!

**Author's Note:**

> Loose Ends updates the first Thursday of every month.  
> Thank you for reading!


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